


If This Was A Cold War (We Could Keep Each Other Warm)

by skyline



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate History, America loses the Cold War, M/M, Steve has an arc reactor, Time Travel, Tony takes the super serum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This might be a sinking ship, this whole mission.”</p><p>He doesn’t mean them working together for the foreseeable future; he means all of it. Steve’s death. Tony’s future. Life. </p><p>But Steve is a hero, through and through. He holds his chin in the air, stubbornly brave. “I don’t hear the orchestra playing yet.”</p><p>At that, Tony laughs.</p><p>“Baby, we are the orchestra.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ummmm. So yesterday my friend got me stuck on a fanart spiral, and I saw a picture of Steve with an arc reactor, and that got me throwing ideas at her. Plus I've watched like an episode and a half of the Man in the High Castle, which I think must have me on an alt-history kick. This may or may not be terrible.

_1942_

In a different world, the doctors say, Steve would have been born with _defects_.

Insulting word choice aside, they paint the picture of a scrawny, asthmatic man who would never amount to much. They tell Sarah she is lucky they caught her condition in time.

Instead of a sickly, wan child, Steve is born strong.

He is one of the first to enlist when America enters the war in the European theater.

Bucky tells him it’s a dumb thing to do, rushing in so eager, but Steve figures Bucky is full of it. Even when shrapnel shreds Steve’s chest and he collapses on the blood soaked ground in Italy, he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

He’s ready to die for his country. Happy to do it, even.

History won’t miss Steve Rogers, but he’ll still have this legacy; one more brave soldier, bleeding out in a field.

Only, things don’t work out quite that way.

* * *

 

_2012_

No matter what Tony promised Bruce, he isn’t entirely sure the world will ever see a super soldier serum.

Even the name is stupid. There’s nothing admirable in Tony’s mind about being a soldier. He can’t see what’s so appealing about being a super version of one.

Still. He keeps his promises.

Whether or not there are better ways to go about this – parascientific combat initiatives, cybernetic exoskeletons, hell, even bastardized eugenics – he sticks with Bruce’s methodology, careful not to replicate Bruce’s big, green problem. Tony’s born witness to how the Hulk shrank Banner’s options for sex from one reasonably attractive brunette to the comfort of his own hand. He’s not eager to replicate those particular conditions.

The latest version of the serum doesn’t turn Happy the Hamster green, which Tony decides is a good thing. A few more test runs and this one might be a winner. Or it could completely fail, like the last eighty strains.

Either way, Pepper demands he call it a night. “Maria wants to talk to you.”

“Unless she wants to have that conversation in bed, I’m going to go with negative.”

“Tony.” Pepper sighs. “We’re all tired.”

She sounds so weary and sad that the thing Tony sometimes thinks might be his heart kicks out. “Right-o. I’ll be up in ten.”

He takes half an hour, but he gets there. There being the conference room at the very top of Stark Tower, where Maria’s sitting at the head of a long table, flanked by Reed, Bruce, and a handful of agents in black. Pepper’s in a folding chair apart from the table, her ridiculously long legs casually crossed, with a tablet propped on her knees. She doesn’t even glance up when Tony waltzes in, but her lips purse disapprovingly.

Pepper is forever disapproving of him. It would hurt his feelings if he didn’t know she cared.

Hill says, “Stark, we’ve got word from the Kremlin.”

“The motherland,” Tony replies cheerlessly. “What do they want now?”

“Word’s spread about your little project.” She looks frazzled, in the way that perfectly put-together women only can; a small crease at the corner of her eyes, a tiny wrinkle by her lips, and not a single hair out of place. “We need to speed up the timeline.”

“You can’t rush science, ladies.” Tony ignores the miffed looks a few of the black suited SSR soldiers throw him, lips downturned under their mustaches.

“Reed’s already set up his part of the plan.”

“I helped!” Tony objects. It’s is so like Richards to take all the credit.

“And while we appreciate your contributions on that end, it’s time to nut up or shut up, Stark.” Hill’s eyes narrow. “Reed says you’ll never be able to do it. That it defies the laws of nature. Is he right?”

Tony will never, ever admit that Reed Richards is right about anything. He likes the guy well enough, but with their egos combined they could probably destroy the world. If he says Tony can’t do it, then by Jove, Tony is going to do it.

Even if he’s still not convinced it’s possible.

“It hurts when you doubt me, Director.”

Hill says, “Cry later. What have you got?”

“Look, there’s a formula cooking. Happy didn’t Hulk out, and he’s showing signs of advanced physiology and an uptick in neurological awareness. But that doesn’t mean we can shuffle onto human testing.”

“Take it up with Colonel Rhodes. He’s ready, and so are we. If this plan is going to happen, we’ve got less than a week before the Soviets are knocking on our door.”

Tony bites his tongue. Rhodey volunteered for this project a long, long time ago, because Rhodey doesn’t have anything like a sense of self-preservation. He’s the consummate soldier, despite the fact that the former United States of America’s military was disbanded the second the Kremlin crept up on American soil. Of course he wants to be super-awesome-ified.

The thing is, the alternative to super-awesome-ification is cooking him from the inside out, and Tony isn’t prepared to let his best friend turn into a psychopathic monster or, alternately, die a slow, painful death. He tells Hill that, but she doesn’t look very impressed.

“Make it work, Stark.”

Well, yeah. Like he even has a choice.

That’s what Tony tells himself when he steps into his own machine two days later. Happy hasn’t croaked yet, and he’s doing some impressive acrobatics, which means next to nothing without at least another few months of tests and some peer review, but whatever. There’s a time crunch, right?

The syringes hurt like a bitch, but Tony anesthetized the tips, so the pain doesn’t last. He’s got Jarvis monitoring his vitals, Dummy standing by with a fire extinguisher, and a thing that vaguely resembles a prayer on the tip of his tongue. The concentrated radiation is working in time with the serum, his brain shorted out by white flashes of heat and agony.

Tony’s last real thought is that if he doesn’t die and this doesn’t work, then at least he’s got a role model in Bruce. The guy handles being a rage monster okay.

…although he has way fewer daddy issues than Tony Stark.

Oops.

* * *

 

“Tony? _Tony_? The fuck, man?”

“Less noise,” Tony groans. “More water. Much, much more water.”

There’s a noise that is completely appalled, but that’s how Rhodey always sounds every time he’s in Tony’s vicinity. He peels back the cover of the machine Tony specially designed for this purpose, not bothering with caution. The metal squeals in protest, the hinges creaking worrisomely. Dummy complains in tiny chitters, a glass of water helpfully raised, but Rhodey doesn’t stop until he’s got Tony free.

The ground is nice. Cool. It’s a good place to melt into the earth, Tony thinks.

Rhodey stares down at him, all squinty-eyed with anger. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Nope.” Tony’s voice is raw. The last time he sounded this rough there’d been a stripper named Treasure, some Cubans, and a bottle and a half of whiskey involved. “Did it work?”

“What do you think?”

“That I’m a genius?”

Rhodey’s sharp laughter tells him everything he needs to know.

* * *

 

“I’m thinking Iron Man.” Tony pokes his own abs, because hey, six pack. That’s going to go over big with the ladies. “It conveys everything the people need to know.”

“Like your incredible sense of modesty.” Rhodey has to look up to meet his gaze head-on, because Tony’s taller now. That’s pretty cool. Disorienting, but cool. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Relax. My skin’s skin-colored, and I don’t feel like kicking the shit out of Harlem. All things considered, this is a victory.”

“You’re an idiot.”

They both swivel their heads towards Bruce, who is standing in the entrance to Tony’s lap with his arms crossed and this weird little crease between his eyebrows that means he’s trying really, really hard not to get pissed. Normally, Bruce only wears that face when he’s talking to SSR agents or Reed Richards. Tony takes that to mean he’s fucked up pretty spectacularly.

He still doesn’t plan on apologizing.

“Brucey-bear!”

“Tony. We need to run tests.”

“Duh. That’s just good science.” Tony peers down at Rhodey – ha! – and says, “You called in reinforcements? I’m hurt.”

“We need to monitor you for a few days, and if your skin doesn’t melt off, we’re giving Rhodey the serum.”

“Director Hill said we didn’t have a few days.” Tony does not pout, but he also doesn’t plan on letting Rhodey test drive his pet project until he’s positive that loud noises or sunlight won’t send him into berserker mode.

Bruce snorts. “That might be true, but no one in their right mind is going make you the front man for this, Tony.”

“Why not?” Tony asks, even though it’s pointless. He’s seen his psychological evaluation. He’s not a soldier. He’s not the guy who falls on the grenade. He’s a billionaire playboy with a drinking problem and much too much arrogance. But he’s also all they’ve got at this juncture. He flutters his eyelashes and says, “It’s like you all don’t trust me, or something.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, most of his attention occupied by Tony’s vitals, which are helpfully displayed in electric blue, hanging midair. “Heart and brain function are normal, and it doesn’t look like any of your organs are going to suffer imminent shutdown.”

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever called your brain function normal, I’d bet.” Rhodey scowls. Tony flashes him a smug grin, because see, this isn’t so bad.

Bruce asks Jarvis to pull up a few more numbers, which the traitor does sans permission. Tony leans back against his worktop, his weight making the desk creak and oh, that’s new. He toys with a wrench while Bruce and Rhodey’s disapproval simmers.

“Are my hands bigger? I think my hands are bigger.” Tony stretches back the elastic of his sweats, glancing down. “Guys, this might be the greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, still caught up in the flow of data that Jarvis is oh-so-helpfully providing. Rhodey sighs for the umpteenth time. He’s such a killjoy.

A flat screen mounted in the corner runs four different news channels, at least one announcing that the USSR’s General Secretary is preparing a visit to the capitol. That means their plan better work, because no way is Tony sitting in eight hours of gridlock every time he needs to run from Stark Tower to SSR headquarters.

His priorities are clearly in order.

Finally, Bruce jerks his head towards a treadmill near the flat screen. “Get on.”

“I didn’t hear you say please, Banner.”

“Tony.” The little furrow between his brows is still there, and he’s beginning to look a little green. “Get. On. The treadmill.”

“Fine, fine.”

Tony ambles on over to the machine. His knees don’t creak when he pushes up off the desk, and he can’t feel that constant knot of tension between his neck and his skull anymore. Every gulp of air through his lungs feels fresher and cleaner and deeper than it has since he was young. Tony feels incredible. He’s in the best shape of his life.

An hour and a half on the treadmill, and he’s barely even winded. He can lift the weight of his favorite Ferrari with one hand, and also Rhodey, which Rhodey does not appreciate at all.

Tony asks Bruce to turn green so he can see how his newly minted muscles stand up against the Hulk, but Bruce vetoes that idea before it’s even out of his mouth. For the life of him, he can’t find anything wrong with Tony, and that seems to be driving him insane.

“You know what this means, right?” Bruce settles his hands on his hips. He and Rhodey are wearing matching frowns. Tony thinks their faces are going to stick like that. “We’re going to have to tell Maria.”

Eh. What’s the worst she can do?

* * *

 

Three hours of lecturing later, and Tony has decided that Director Hill missed her true calling as a kindergarten teacher. Not only did she spend the better of her tirade reaming out Tony, but Bruce and Rhodey got theirs too.

“How can this possibly be our fault?” Bruce asks mildly, because he does everything mildly. Rhodey would have snapped it if the idea of questioning a superior officer had ever once crossed Rhodey’s mind. Which it wouldn’t, once, in the history of ever.

To this day, Tony is still confused about how they became such good friends.

“You should have watched him!” Hill retorts, and somewhere in the background Pepper is nodding, expression tight.

She’s going to give Tony her own private lecture later, probably three times as long and with twice the volume. No one does censure quite like Pepper Potts. That’s why she runs his company. And his life. And probably the world, one day, if they can fix the way it is now.

“We can’t send him,” Hill tells Rhodey and Bruce. “There’s no way Stark can handle this.”

Bruce is clearly running the Fibonacci sequence in his head. He has his eyes squeezed tightly shut when he murmurs, “I’m not sure we have a choice.”

“Why not? We’ll give the serum to Rhodes and-“

“No can do, Director,” Tony chimes in.

She inhales. She exhales. She does not punch Tony in the face, which he counts as a win. “Why. Not?”

Bruce, ever the diplomat, jumps in. “We still don’t know if there are going to be adverse effects to the serum, considering it’s…basically…untested.”

“You’re untested! Stark, you’re not a soldier.”

“Really?” Tony makes a show of examining his cuticles. He can practically feel everyone in the room glowering. Pepper probably wants to stab him with one of her stilettos. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Colonel Rhodes is uniquely suited to this mission.”

“ _Colonel_ Rhodes isn’t even a real Colonel,” Tony replies sharply. “Newsflash. The SSR isn’t an actual military. You’re a band of mercenaries, at best.”

Director Hill is wearing her murder-eyes, and yet, Tony still won’t back down. She says, “We don’t have time to find out whether or not the serum is safe.”

“Exactly.” Tony crosses his arms over his chest, which is considerably buffer than the last time he checked. If he survives all of this, he’s going to be _swimming_ in women. “I might not be a soldier, but I’m the smartest person in this room – sorry, Banner – and frankly, I’m all you’ve got. I’m not letting you play mad scientist with my best friend.”

“Thanks,” Rhodey mutters. He does not sound very grateful.

“Oh, but it’s okay if you – no. You know what? This project is too big for you to mess it up.”

Icily, Tony says, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m funding this project. And the entire SSR, for that matter.”

“Precisely. We don’t have time, and you’re right, wasting Rhodes when you’re already ready to martyr yourself would be dumb.”

Take that, psychological evaluation.

“Maria,” Pepper objects, paling. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry, Pep.” Tony produces his best carefree grin. “I’m not aiming for sainthood.”

She is not even slightly mollified. “You better not be.”

Director Hill, at least, seems resigned to the plan. She says, “Oh eight hundred hours tomorrow. We’ll debrief with Reed.”

Schooling his features to hide the tremble in his voice, Rhodey says, “Tomorrow seems a bit…rushed.”

“The Kremlin’s visit is Friday.” Hill pushes back her seat, collecting her things. “Tomorrow’s all we got.”

* * *

 

Tony immediately figures out that the serum has drawbacks.

The first and foremost being that he _can’t get drunk_.

“This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

Bruce is unsympathetic, sipping kombucha spiked with bourbon and telling Tony, “You brought it on yourself.”

Rhodey, similarly, does not exhibit a single sign of empathy. He raises his glass of whiskey and says, “That’s what you get for being an asshole.”

“Excuse me for trying to be a good friend.”

“Don’t even pretend that’s what this is about,” Rhodey replies flatly. “You were trying to prove something?”

Tony takes a sip of his own drink, which does absolutely nothing for him. It doesn’t even burn going down. His liver is probably spotless now. Damn it.

“What? What could I possibly have been trying to prove, Colonel. Dispense your wisdom.”

“You’ve never been able to one-up your dad.” Rhodey replies shrewdly. “The serum was his baby, and you know it.”

“The arc reactor was his baby,” Tony corrects. “Clean energy for one and all. Never mind that I could have made a better design.”

“If he hadn’t gotten there first.”

“No. No ifs. I hate ifs. If the Soviets never dropped the H-Bomb on D.C., if we’d won the Cold War, if I’d forgotten to bring a condom at the last charity gala I went to…”

Bruce groans. “Your priorities continue to astound me.”

“Just keeping it real, honey bun.” Tony finishes off his drink, hoping against hope, but nope. Five glasses in and he’s still not feeling it. This blows. “Believe what you want, but truth is, I didn’t think it could be done. I thought I’d either kill myself or turn big and green.” Here, he cuts his eyes towards Bruce, who does not look even a little bit insulted. “And I wasn’t quite ready to bury you yet.”

Rhodey says, “That’s almost sweet, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah. Write it on my epitaph.” He puts his head in his hands. “I’m too brilliant for this world.”

Snorting, Bruce replies, “The struggle is real.”

“Mocking is unkind. You are an unkind person.”

“We’re worried about you, is all.” Rhodey claps Tony’s shoulder, his breath smelling of sweet, sweet intoxication. Tony hates him a little bit. “I’ve been prepping for this mission for a year and a half.”

“I sat in on a few of the meetings.”

“You were playing games on your phone the entire time. Face it, Tony. The only physical confrontation you like is in the bedroom, and now you’re…this.”

“Yeah. And this is all we’ve got. Deal with it.”

“I am. Bruce is. We all are.” Rhodey pauses. “The thing is, we’re rooting for you.” He glances out the window of the tower, where the Soviet flag flaps on the nearest roof, red and yellow, the curve of the sickle flashing in and out of view. “This isn’t the way we’re supposed to be living.”

“This is the last frontier,” Bruce agrees, and he means the police state, the lack of freedom, the way every move they make is under a magnifying glass. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

“About that. I have serious doubts this is going to work.”

Rhodey laughs. “That doesn’t sound like you, Tony. Confidence.”

“I am confident that I am awesome. I am not confident that this plan is awesome.”

“I’ll let Reed know you said that.”

“I already have. Loudly. And often.” Making a disgusted noise, Tony continues, “We are nothing but human guinea pigs to that man.”

“Says the guy who hopped in his own monster-making machine.”

“And yet, now I’ve got great abs and no purple shorts,” Tony deadpans back at Bruce.

“Point taken. You are the superior scientist.” Bruce toasts him with a cheeky grin.

Tony looks down at his empty glass and despises science. He says, “Reed thinks he’s the superior everything.”

“You’re jealous he’s team leader,” Rhodey drawls. It’s not a question.

“Immensely.”

Somewhat comfortingly, Bruce tells him, “Time travel is possible. And you worked on the device.”

“It’ll work. I am eighty five percent sure it’s going to work.” Which for Tony is basically rock solid certainty.

“So what? You don’t think you can stop the assassination, once you’re there?”

“Please.” Tony exhales a puff of air that tastes of antipathy. “I’ll stop it. But even if I do, that doesn’t mean it’s going to change the course of history.”

“Reed says it will. The man had intel on every move the Soviets made. He was the only one who could have stopped the missile launch on our end, which would have deterred the strike against Washington.”

Tony knows there’s more of an argument to be had. He knows that even if he can travel back in time and stop everything from happening, there’s no guarantee that America still won’t lose the war. But Reed’s talked him through every possible continuity from here to eternity. The chance that it will work is worth more than the risk that it won’t.

Especially now, considering the person they’re risking is Tony.

“Reed’s a pompous dickhole. But sure. I’ll do it. I’ll save the world.”

“Much obliged,” Bruce and Rhodey chorus, but Tony ignores their sarcasm.

He says, “I’m going to save Captain America.”


	2. Chapter 2

_1942_

Howard Stark is a cocky jackass.

He probably has every right to be, considering the way he saved Steve’s life. Steve doesn’t necessarily think the act excuses rudeness, but it’s not like he’s in the position to complain. Howard’s device – the miniaturized arc reactor – is the only thing that’s keeping him moving, preventing the shrapnel from reaching his heart.

“It’s a miracle of modern science,” Howard says smugly when he describes the process to Steve. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re something,” Steve mutters back.

What matters more to him than gizmos and gadgets is getting back out there, back on the battlefield. He asks when his keepers at the SSR plan on letting him out. The answer is a resounding _never_.

“Steve,” Peggy says. “This technology is untested. We can’t be sure it will hold up in the middle of battle. Besides, it’s a bright blue target.”

Steve glares down at his chest. “I can cover the glow. I need to be out there, _fighting_.”

Howard, for all his arrogance, is actually helpful on this point. He tells Steve, “I’ve got something cooking up. I think you might be interested.”

“Are you really considering this?” Peggy asks him, and Steve has no idea what she’s on about. He doesn’t much care, as long as he can get back out there. He received word over two weeks ago that his regiment – Bucky’s regiment – went MIA. There’s no way Steve is letting his men go down in the history books as a loss. “I thought you wanted to screen more candidates.”

“Please.” Howard makes a noise that lies somewhere between exasperation and repugnance. “Have you seen Captain Rogers’ service record. The man’s a Boy Scout in saint’s clothing.”

“The man is sitting right here,” Steve objects.

Peggy and Howard turn to him, her big, dark eyes worried, his gleaming. Howard says, “So you are. Captain, have you ever heard of Project Rebirth?”

* * *

 

_2012_

In the cold light of morning, Tony wakes up with nary a headache in sight. He should be completely incapacitated with a hangover the size of Mount Rushmore, but nothing. Brilliance is a double-edged sword. Tony groans, burying his face in his pillow.

He can hear the cars honking on the streets outside the tower, which is bizarre, because this level is completely soundproofed. Stupid super hearing. There’s more to it than that, these powers; a strategic clarity of mind that actually isn’t all that different from how Tony’s was already wired. Still, the serum created new neural pathways, a whole new mix of brain chemistry. It’s all new and strange and very, very unnerving.

Tony cracks open one sleep-crusted eye and peers at the body cuddled up next to him. Then at the one on the other side.

Careful not to dislodge either of the obliging ladies, Tony crawls out of bed. He snatches his robe, glimpsing himself in the mirror as he goes. The scratch marks the redhead left on his back the night prior have completely disappeared.

Accelerated healing. That means the serum’s doing exactly what it says on the tag, and that Bruce and Rhodey can suck it. Tony grins as he shrugs on the terrycloth. He doesn’t bother leaving a note when he heads down to his workshop. Pepper will clear the girls out.

She’s terribly good at herding Tony’s partners towards the door. Like a sheepdog that he rewards in really expensive shoes instead of kibble.

He makes a note to never voice that thought out loud to her, lest one his eyes make an intimate acquaintance with the heels of those shoes.

There’s at least two hours before he’s due for the debrief. Dummy whips up coffee that tastes mostly like battery acid. Jarvis advises him not to drink it, but Tony hates to hurt the little guy’s feelings. He alternates sipping from the mug and taking swigs of water. All his brand new organs can probably handle it anyway.

When Rhodey descends into the workshop an hour and half later, he finds Tony reviewing slides from the forties and fifties. “What are you doing?”

“Looking into Dad’s legacy. Project Rebirth. He made men into machines.”

“One man. The ultimate man.”

“Rhodey, tone down the hero worship. It’s a little embarrassing.”

“Like you didn’t have posters of Captain America on your wall as a kid.”

“I would never.” Tony flicks through the slides; a mixture of propaganda posters, captures from newsreels, and a few personal pictures of his father and his Aunt Peggy standing proudly next to Steve Rogers, back in the day. “That would be contraband.”

“Oh, sure. And everyone knows the Starks played by the Kremlin’s rules.”

“That’s how we’ve been voted top weapons manufacturer worldwide for the last five years running, baby.”

“Only five?”

Tony shrugs. “Hammer had a good year in 2007. It didn’t last.”

“Tony. Just say the word, and I’ll take the serum. This could be a suicide mission, and in the scheme of things, you’re more important to the SSR than I am.”

“Colonel Rhodes,” Tony replies, voice hitching sharply. He fiddles with some code on his computer, refusing to fall victim to the sappy look Rhodey is throwing his way. “Call me selfish, but you’re more important to me than any stupid mission to change the world. It has to be me.”

“I don’t like this Tony. Pepper doesn’t like this. Banner thinks getting you onboard the project was all his fault-“

“It wasn’t. You know me. Love a good mystery.”

“Yeah. I know you, Tony.” Rhodey sighs into his own open palm. “Your biceps are bigger than your head now.”

“The better to embrace you with, my dear.”

“The KGB brought Carol in today.”

Tony sucks in a breath. “How is she?”

“Haven’t heard from her yet. Our agent on the inside says she’s holding up under interrogation.”

“The fiancée. That means you’re next.”

Rhodey nods; he’s got the drill down pat. He says, “And then you. I’ve already given Pepper the heads up. She’s warming up the shredders.”

Major Danvers was laying groundwork and performing reconnaissance for the SSR long before Rhodey, and consequently Tony, got roped in. She’s an old pro, but if she’s managed to come under suspicion, then there will be a pretty quick chain reaction that lands right on Stark Industry’s doorstep, whether Carol or caves or not.

She won’t cave. She’s tough. It’s what Rhodey likes about her.

Tony tells him, “I guess that means shit just got real.”

“We need Reed’s portal to work.”

“It is at least forty percent my portal too.” Tony is confident in this, at least. He’s never taken a tool to anything that hasn’t performed. Sometimes the performance isn’t the intended one, but hey. Either way, there are going to be fireworks. “It’ll work. I told you, it’s the after-part that’s going to go up in flames.”

Rhodey bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You’re quick on your feet. You’ll figure it out.”

“Even though I’m not a soldier?”

Studying Tony’s biceps a little covetously, Rhodey answers, “Tony, right now you’re the only real soldier we’ve got.”

* * *

 

About forty minutes past eight – because why break tradition and be on time? – Tony ambles into the Director Hill’s favorite conference room. The SSR operates out of three different floors in the tower, intermingled with the more legitimate businesses Tony’s owns under the umbrella of SI. It’s his own little kingdom, branded with his name.

Maria still runs the show.

She’s got Reed Richards sitting to her right, his wife, Sue, in the chair next to him. The two of them have a higher profile than anyone in the tower. Even Tony. After their work in conjunction with the Soviet Space Program gave them heebie jeebie powers, they basically became international celebrities.

Tony doesn’t resent the way the Kremlin follows their every move. What he does have a problem with is Reed’s wall of degrees, which includes a handful more than Tony’s collected.

He could have gone to Harvard if he’d wanted, okay. They begged Tony to attend.

Reed is not even a little impressed that Tony’s conducted a little Project Rebirth of his own. Reed is rarely impressed by anything, so Tony doesn’t take it personally.

He sits through the debriefing with more focus than he’s ever before managed to muster for SSR activities – even when he actively tries not to pay attention, the serum dictates that he registers and files away every word with painful accuracy. Director Hill poses a pop quiz at the end, and even she seems surprised when Tony manages to pass it with flying colors. “You’re taking this seriously.”

“With deep, heartfelt regret,” Tony replies. He gathers up the portfolio and props that the SSR have requisitioned for his use, including a bespoke suit befitting a businessman in 1943. Tony doesn’t bother asking how the tailor got his new measurements; Hill’s people are adept at bypassing the first few layers of Jarvis’s security. Tony is adept at making sure all the information on those layers has been personally vetted by Pepper, and that any deeper intrusion is met with a firewall that gives new meaning to the word impenetrable.

Pepper is waiting outside the conference room. Wordlessly, she guides him away from the black suited agents, Maria, and Reed, all the way down the end of the hall and into the elevator. She keeps mum until they’re in Tony’s office, and it’s only once she’s fished a tiny keyring from her inner suit pocket and pressed the button therein that she turns on him. “We’ve got five minutes.”

The concentrated mini-EMP knocks out the earworms, both of Soviet and friendly origin, strategically planted all over the room. It’s easier than removing than sweeping the place every week, and besides, Tony likes controlling who knows what about his life.

He lets Pepper wrestle the portfolio from his hands. She scans the dossier inside, reading, “Captain America aided the Allies in their decisive victory during World War II. He became a key figure in the early years of the Cold War, until his assassination in 1952- seriously? This is all they’re giving you?”

“It’s educational.”

“In that it’s straight out of a high school history textbook. Do they want you to fail?”

Tony plops down in his ergonomic leather chair. “What do you want, Pepper? They gave me a time, they gave me a place. When the gun aims for Rogers’ heart, I’m going to make sure it doesn’t hit its mark.”

“There’s more to the story than this.” She brandishes the dossier like it might make a useful weapon.

“Yeah. The Director’s not about to start spilling national secrets. You know that.”

“I know that obscuring the truth is going to get you killed.” Pepper’s face crumples. “You don’t even know what that new body of yours can do.”

“Neither do you, Pep. Hey.” He pats the desk, and after a brief moment, she obligingly comes to lean against it. There was a time when the two of them were more than colleagues, more than friends. It’s over now, but the scent of her hair and the stern lines at the corners of her eyes are still a kind of comfort. Tony does not like to see her unhappy. “I’m going to be okay.”

“That’s not something you can promise.”

“That doesn’t make it less true.”

Pepper frowns, but she doesn’t argue. She’s borne the brunt of Tony’s intrigues, running SI like a warrior in the boardroom, and running herself into the ground to handle the tasking demands of the SSR as well. If anything, Tony’s work on the portal with Reed and his subsequent assist on the serum for Bruce seems so insignificant. Now he’s sitting here with all these muscles and responsibility, but Pepper’s the real super soldier.

She says, “Rhodey told me you want to call yourself Iron Man.”

“Catchy, right?”

She laughs, this broken sounding thing. “Tony, have you thought about what you’re going to do if things go wrong?”

It’s a valid question. They’ve got contingency plans on this side of the timeline for just that scenario. Tony’s supposed to disappear out of the public eye after a media fiasco revolving a blog and his sex life. Pepper schemed that one up, but she didn’t have to stretch her imagination too far. Tony had toyed with the idea of an internet tell-all about ten years prior. Back when Pepper was merely his PA instead of _family_.

After that, they’ll stage something; maybe a tragic car accident, like the one that killed his parents. Maybe something on a grander scale. Tony Stark will cease to exist, and the SSR will go back to the drawing board.

But on his end? Tony has all kinds of strategies swimming behind his eyelids; he would even if the serum wasn’t messing with his mind. The thing is, he won’t know which to use until he’s on the wire, and there’s no way he’s telling Pepper that. She’s morally opposed to the entire concept of _winging it_.

“Nothing will go wrong. I’m blasting myself back to 1952, playing human shield, and then, _viola_. I’ll be back here in a whole new future, with you. Paradoxes be damned.” He’s spent countless hours arguing with Reed about paradoxes. Eventually he had to bend to the man’s superior knowledge. If the X-Men can fuck with time without repercussions, then who is Tony to say that mere homo sapiens can’t?

“Okay, Iron Man.” Pepper raises her chin, determined to be braver and stronger than Tony will ever manage. “I believe in you.”

Tony’s computer whirs as it begins to boot up.

Their five minutes are over.

* * *

 

The portal is a giant, gleaming, metal machine that Tony built from scratch. Reed did most of the math on the initial design, but Tony triple checked it during construction. As much as he gives Richards grief, he trusts the guy’s calculations. More to the point, he knows his own work is solid.

Bruce hovers by the sidelines of the laboratory with Reed, going over pre-checks. Rhodey is practically glued to Tony’s side. He says, “We should have made you a costume.”

“Kinky.”

“Hey, you can’t be a masked crusader without a mask.”

“Ugh, now you’re putting me on Reed’s level. Next you’re going to want put adjectives in front of my name.” Tony shudders. He still thinks the Fantastic Four is the dumbest super hero brand he’s ever heard of. And not just because Richards is part of the team. “If you must, go for magnificent. Incredible. God’s gift to mankind.”

“How about Invincible, _Iron Man_?”

“It’s got a nice ring to it,” Tony allows. He pats down his suit. It’s a different cut than he’s used to, but he basically grew up wearing the things. They’re every bit as comfortable to Tony as sweats. They just don’t handle grease stains as well. “The time is nigh. Want to give talking me out of this one last go?”

“Would it work?” Rhodey asks.

“No. But the effort makes me feel loved.”

Rhodey grins, and it’s the same expression he wore when the two of them were in college, pulling pranks on the upperclassmen and getting into all sorts of trouble. He’s never changed, even as he grew more patriotic for a country that stopped existing long before his birth. Tony admires that.

“Alright. You know the drill. Gimme your cell, your watch; anything modern.”

Tony accommodates him, and in return he gets an old model Colt .45 for his efforts. “You know how to use this?”

“Please.” Tony rolls his eyes, because Rhodey knows better than that. Even if Tony has suffered a moral compunction or two over Stark Industry’s main trade in the past, he knows his products and how to use them. He knows competitors’, too. The Colt’s a solid piece.

He checks the cartridge and then slides it into his waistband, for lack of a better hiding place. A holster would be too conspicuous if Tony pops into the past even a little before schedule. That’s always a risk.

“Do us all a favor and try not to shoot yourself in the foot.”

“Your faith in me continues to astound.”

“Hey,” Bruce calls. “We’re ready for you.”

The face he’s wearing isn’t anything like happy.

Tony claps Rhodey on the shoulder, and he grimaces, but returns the favor. From there, Tony feels like a dead man walking, everyone in Reed’s lab watching until he steps up onto the platform of the portal. It’s only years of practice for the media and board meetings that enable Tony to keep his composure.

Reed’s got his hands on the controls like he can’t wait to get Tony out of here, but more likely he just wants to see his baby in action. The man’s got a hard on for science that’s eight miles long. Maybe literally, considering his condition.

Tony ponders that, squicks himself out, and decides never to think about Reed Richards’ dick again, for his own sanity. He bounces from one foot to the other and announces, “I’m ready for my close up.”

“Be safe, Tony,” Bruce instructs, looking absolutely miserable.

“Aw, don’t cry snookums. I’m just going back to when this place was still the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

“Try to keep it that way,” Reed advises, perpetually unamused. Then, before Tony can even say goodbye, he pulls the lever.

* * *

 

So. He’s not in France. Or at least not in Paris.

That’s not ideal.

Tony scowls up at the decrepit buildings around him, turn of the century farmhouses that probably haven’t been in use since the actual turn of the century. Everything smells like wildflowers and manure.

He’s supposed to be in Paris. Paris in 1953, ten minutes before the assassination takes place. Clearly, something’s gone awry. For a second, Tony blinks back the too-blue sky, cursing Reed Richards all the while. Then, the purr of repulsor tech, familiar from Tony’s childhood, alerts him that he’s not alone.

The second thing that really tips him off is the bullet that narrowly misses his heart, but for the grace of god and his newly enhanced senses.

“Heads up!” A voice yells, one beat too late. Tony’s already flat on the ground, marveling at how fast he just moved. He rolls onto his back, and that’s when he sees it. Hovering about ten feet off the ground, outlined by sunlight, is a suit of armor made out of gleaming chrome, painted red, white, and blue.

So this is how Tony first meets Captain America.

Dead center in a firefight.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_1942_

 

The first time Steve wears the Captain America armor, the weight of it nearly bears him down into the ground.

Howard announces, “I’ll tweak the exoskeleton,” wearing his manic, mad scientist smirk and practically wiggling with glee.

Steve finds that smirk concerning. Peggy tells him it’s what Howard’s face normally looks like. Somehow that’s not comforting news.

The second try, he can stand, but now the joints aren’t moving as smoothly as when he collapsed face first into a pile of dirt. It takes a handful of trials to get to the stage where Steve can run, and at least fifteen to get him up in the air. But flying, oh. _Flying_.

Flying is better than fighting, any day of the week.

* * *

 

_Later (???)_

 

The men with the guns are giving welcome wagons a bad name.

To be fair, Tony was expecting this expedition to culminate in bullets, but there weren’t supposed to be so many weapons in the mix. Also: still not Paris. He takes that information in while rolling to his feet, twisting his body to avoid the ricochet of shells off Captain America’s metal body.

There are ten assailants. There were ten assailants, he corrects. The good Captain’s already dispatched six. They are contorted on the ground in a strange parody of kindergarten naptime. KGB plainclothes, Tony guesses, mostly because he’s inclined to guess any person who wants to kill him is a Soviet or an ex, or occasionally, a combination of the two.

Captain America’s eyes glow blue, and behind that mask, Tony bets his friend or foe status is being evaluated in streams of data. The HUD in the suit has a hotline straight back to the SSR’s Strategic Command, streaming pictures, biodata, and environmental updates; all the stuff needed to keep the Cap armor running smoothly. If Tony had built it, he figures he’d have installed Jarvis’s latest upgrade, but artificial intelligence is barely a glimmer in science’s eye, now. The term wasn’t even coined until 1955.

Which, weird. He’s totally in the fifties.

The cognitive dissonance there is completely fucking with his head. For some reason, Tony imagined everything would be in black and white.

One gunshot rings out louder than the rest, setting Tony back into motion. He’s usually standing on the sidelines of conflict, but his body reacts before his brain can even catch up. It’s not a feeling he’s used to, or one he’s even certain he likes. The whole not-getting-shot thing is cool though, so he keeps doing that, knowing instinctively where and when the bullets will land. He slams his hand straight into one agent’s chest, while Rogers takes care of the other two with carefully aimed repulsor blasts.

It’s the first time Tony’s tested his strength against another human being. The KGB agent slams back into the clapboard of a rotting farmhouse, which gives way with absolutely zero protest. He’s out like a light; concussed, Tony thinks. Not dead.

That’s good. He’s not quite ready to kill a man with his bare hands.

Tony stalks away from the decimated ruins of the barn side. There’s one goon left, brandishing a Kalashnikov. Captain America aims his shield at the man’s head, but he miscalculates the angles.

Tony zooms in on the shield in Rogers’ hand, the error glaring as he calculates the trajectory in a split second. So he does what any rational human being would do; he jumps up and catches it, mid-spin. Then he brings the shield down like a bludgeon on Mr. KGB’s head.

The man crumples to the ground.   

“And cut on the action scene,” Tony mutters, a little freaked out.

That jump must have taken him at least six feet in the air. The force of the shield should have cut into his hands. He really is a super soldier, now.

“That was…interesting,” Rogers’ mechanical voice says coolly.

That tonality is remarkable, Tony thinks. Making the whole robot-voice modulator expressive, long before robots were anything like a norm. Definitely his dad’s work.

Tony tries not to resent that.

“Kudos to me,” he murmurs.

“Right. And who are you?”

Tony pats down the front of his suit, checking for dirt. “Tony. Rhodes. Tony Rhodes.”

He almost adds _Colonel_ , but that’s a fact that’s easily checked and disproven. There’s no way a Stark can pass as an honest to god Air Force officer. Rhodey will appreciate the attempt at paying homage, though. If he ever sees Rhodey again.

“Mr. Rhodes.” It’s eerie, the way the circuitry that stands in for Captain America’s eyes gleams. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Tony’s not solid on where _here_ is, charmingly decrepit though it may be, so he doesn’t really have a defense for that. He offers, “Seemed like a nice day for a walk.”

With a hiss, the Captain’s faceplate slides up. “Most people don’t walk towards the dulcet lullaby of gunfire.”

The thing here is, Tony knows he should have something witty on the tip of his tongue. And he would, normally. If Steve Rogers didn’t have the most stunning face Tony had ever seen on a man.

Instead of answering, he gapes a bit openly, managing, “That jaw gives new definition to chiseled.”

Rogers snorts. But he’s all business when he asks, “Are you unarmed?”

There’s a joke in there about weapons of mass destruction and Tony’s brand new biceps, but it’s probably in poor taste. He goes with, “If I say no, are you going to frisk me? Just in case?”

Come to think of it, that’s probably not much better. Captain America, the man, the legend, squints up at the sky. “I’d rather not.”

“Disappointing, but logical, seeing as you’re bulletproof.” Tony waggles his eyebrows, hoping the full-on outrageous will distract the other man from his next question. “What day is it? Out of curiosity.”

“December 5th. I think.”

That explains the chill in the air, which Tony didn’t even feel until this moment, now that he’s been tuned into it. No wonder the KGB guys had on big, squishy coats.

Winter’s encroachment isn’t the big problem here, though. The problem is that the man history knows as Captain America was assassinated in 1953. September 1953, to be exact. If it’s December, then Reed made a huge miscalculation. Smarmy bastard.

“Right. Yeah. Sure.” Tony tries to bite back his annoyance. Richards can be dealt with later. Much later. Much, much, much later depending on the Captain’s next answer. He grimaces, inquiring, “And what’s the year?”

Rogers frowns, and if anything, it makes him look even more handsome. That might get irritating really, really quickly. “1952. Say, did one of them graze you?”

“Not a mark on me,” Tony assures him. “And definitely no head trauma. I can see you wondering.”

Rogers shrugs, the metal suit groaning. “You had some moves out there.”

Not usually a phrase Tony hears outside the boardroom or the bedroom, but he’ll take it. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

“This is strange. You are a strange person.”

“Eh.” That particular phrase he hears a lot. “I’ve always wondered, why the shield?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re wearing a tin can. As far as body armor goes, the shield’s excessive. And a bit medieval.”

“I like the shield.” Rogers crosses his arms. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. It is nothing to me. So.” He whistles as conspicuously as possible, to really drive home the awkward. “1952, huh?”

“Same year it was yesterday, Mr. Rhodes.”

If Tony had thought about it – which he hasn’t – he would have envisioned himself and Captain America hitting it off. He’s got a rapport with soldiers; he brings new toys and fresh cigars to the front line, and in return, they overlook the part where he’s a complete corporate douche.

Maybe it’s the lack of Cubans in his pockets, but Rogers doesn’t exactly look pleased.

Tony replies, “Must be. For you, I mean.” That makes no sense. He hurries to say, “And me too. I guess.”

“No one’s supposed to know that I’m on assignment.” Rogers tells him flatly. “And you moved like…nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Tony preens. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“I’m going to have to take you back to the SSR.”

It sounds vaguely like a threat.

Tony likes threats. They’re challenges he just hasn’t risen to yet.

“I don’t usually go home with a guy on the first date, but for you, sweetheart? Lead the way.”

* * *

 

The headquarters of the Strategic Scientific Reserve isn’t nearly as grand in the early fifties as Stark Tower. Then again, Tony’s got a reputation for ostentation. Very few things are as grand as Stark Tower.

“Nice digs,” he tells Captain Rogers, which is the name with which he’s been instructed refer to Mr. Red, White, and Blue. Never a big fan of instructions, or orders, Tony is already cultivating a collection of pet names in retaliation.

They range from vexing to completely infuriating. If he’s stuck in the fifties for roughly a year, Tony reasons they’ll get a lot of use.

“They’re home for now.” Rogers sighs, clearly weary of…something that Tony’s not seeing. He’d ask, but he doesn’t think their acquaintance is ready for that level of intimacy yet. Although the man at the entry way _did_ do a cavity search, so the Captain’s already seen everything Tony’s got on offer. “I need to get this armor off.”

“Need help with that?” Tony leers. He doesn’t even mean anything by it; sleazy is just his favorite MO.

Captain Rogers eyes him up and down like maybe he’s infectious. The two of them are really hitting it off. “Think I’m good, thanks.”

They walk through a labyrinth of cubicles and cigarette smoke, navigating the sacred halls of what, in 2012, is a much sleeker operation. Tony spies mountains of paperwork, which seems entirely impractical. Digital footprints have their own drawbacks, but man, his hands are too pretty for all the papercuts these people must suffer.

Although wait, super healing. Tony wonders if he can even scar now.

He’s in the middle of pondering that when Rogers proclaims, “Brought you a fresh one, boss.”

And then it gets weird.

The last time Tony saw his dad, the man was graying faster than Santa Claus. This version of Howard Stark is younger, stronger, and full of swagger. He’s in the prime of his life, and when he takes in Tony, it’s with bright, curious eyes. “You brought me a…strapping gentleman. He doesn’t quite run to my tastes.”

“I am insulted. And disturbed,” Tony says by way of introduction. He’s watching his dad with just as much interest as Howard is watching him. There’s a wellspring of feelings in his stomach, and he is dutifully ignoring them all, because what else is he supposed to do?

Stupid Reed. Stupid plan, going off book.

Stupid daddy issues Tony tries really hard to pretend he doesn’t have. His fingers twitch for a drink.

“He gatecrashed my mission,” Rogers explains. “Did you catch the footage?”

“I’ve been occupied.”

“Sure, boss. Occupied.” It’s funny. Every time Captain Rogers says boss, his eye twitches minutely.

Howard flashes a grin; it comes easier than it ever did in Tony’s childhood. “I don’t know what the problem is. He seems like a trustworthy fellow.” To Tony, he says, “Fancy the mustache, friend.”

“Howard.” Rogers exhales his name like it’s a curse word. Oddly enough, every time Tony talks about his father out loud, it’s got the same ring to it. He warms to the Captain, minutely. “We’ve got to follow protocol.”

“Everything is rules with you, Steve.”

Captain Rogers’ cheeks begin to pink, right before he lowers his faceplate. It’s nothing at all like a child throwing a tantrum, except in how a six-foot-something tall man hiding behind a metal suit of armor is exactly like that. “There’s nothing wrong with rules.”

Howard patiently explains, “There is everything wrong with rules.”

And yet he lectured Tony every time he got kicked out of boarding school. Go figure. “Is someone going to debrief me, or are you ladies going to stand around bickering all day?”

Captain America’s face swivels towards Tony, and if there’s a smile or a scowl behind that mask, he’ll never know. “I’ll meet you in the conference room in five.”

He marches away, joints purring as he goes.

The suit’s still a masterpiece of tech. Tony’s been jealous of its elegance basically for his whole life. He’s considering building his own, making upgrades, but. The Kremlin would have shot him out of the sky the second he got airborne.

“You got a name, mister?” Tony’s father asks, and despite the whole song and dance he just put Captain Rogers through, Tony knows he isn’t taking the intrusion lightly. They’ve got the same game face, he and his pops, a smile that hides everything brewing beneath it.

“Tony Rhodes,” Tony replies easily. “You’re Howard Stark.”

Howard inclines his head. “Want an autograph?”

“Hard pass.”

Tony’s using the conversation as an excuse to stare openly around the SSR’s Strategic Command Center, picking up bits and pieces of information and then discarding them just as quickly. He obligingly follows Howard towards a glass encased room that he’s assuming he’s going to be spending the next few hours in, at least, when he notices the woman inside; this one curvy brunette in a smart skirt suit. She’s got some pretty great assets; which Tony is shamelessly cataloguing.

Right up until she turns around and he vomits in his mouth a little bit, because that is so his Aunt Peggy.

“She’s a looker, isn’t she?” Howard asks, which makes the whole thing so much worse. The fifties are awful. They are an awful, awful place full of awful, awful things.

Tony swallows bile and says, “Sure. She’s swell.”

Peggy Carter was practically an installation in Tony’s childhood home. She was constantly badgering Howard about doing a better job at his job, or taking cooking lessons from Jarvis, or whisking Tony’s mother away on fabulous adventures. Hell, she was the first person to teach Tony how to hold a gun.

There’s a lot of memories unlocking in Tony’s head, memories that he’s fought long and hard and with a considerable amount of whiskey to repress. He’d known he was risking this by choosing to time travel, but some small part of Tony had made the mistake of trusting that Reed knew what he was doing.

It could be worse, probably. Tony and Reed’s machine could have fried him from the inside out, creating crispy mushu Stark. Small favors, Tony thinks.

Howard stands in the entry way to the conference room, gesturing inside. “Mr. Rhodes.”

For the briefest of moments, Tony forgets his alias, glancing around for Rhodey. Then he obligingly shuffles in the doorway. Howard points to Peggy with her fire-engine red lips and no-nonsense heels, and then to a rail thin man with slicked back, dark hair, chin jutted in polite, familiar apathy. “This is Agent Carter and Agent Jarvis.”

For one long, dissonant moment, Tony stares at them. He keeps waiting for someone to look at him and go, _gig’s up, Tony Stark_. Between his dad, his Aunt Peggy, and Jarvis – the flesh-and-blood version, not the AI – someone has to notice that all’s not right in StratCom. Instead, they greet him politely, and Tony thinks, well. Isn’t this a cute little round of family bonding?

He looks askance at Jarvis, repeating, “Agent?” Because yeah, that’s new.

Jarvis’s lips purse, but he’s too British to say anything rude. Tony broke him of that habit around the time he turned seven, but he still remembers it. Good times.

Howard slides into one of the sensible leather chair at one end of the conference room, musing, “Should we wait for Steve?”

Tony sits across from him, because why not? Jarvis says, “He’ll be in shortly. Have you eaten?”

“Who knows?” Howard does this little carefree shake of his head that Tony recognizes from years of blowing off Pepper’s concern. “Who cares? I’m still standing.”

“You’re sitting. Sir.”

“Your observational powers remain excellent.” Howard’s gaze lands squarely on Tony. “Let’s cut to the chase. Are you a mutant?”

“You know about mutants?” Tony asks, mouth agape.

Under the Soviet regime, the mutant gene is outlawed. Those with the misfortune to be born with powers don’t usually live long enough to learn to use them. Now their very existence is a rumor; something parents tell their kids about to get them to sleep at night. Tony knows they’re real, but Tony’s in bed with the biggest, scariest rebel organization in what’s left of the continental United States.

“We know a lot of things, Mr. Rhodes,” Peggy supplies. She settles herself into the chair beside Howard, while Jarvis reluctantly grabs the other end. Now it’s like Tony entire childhood is lined up in a firing squad across from him.

He kicks his own chair back on its legs and tries to look as bored as humanly possible. “I’m not a mutant.”

“Then what are you?”

Captain Rogers is leaning in the doorway, all rock solid muscle and parts that Tony would like to lick. He also has really blue eyes. Maybe it was the metal suit and the grainy photography, but the propaganda posters never made him look _edible_.

Feeling a little short of breath, Tony says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but for a mere mortal, you’re built like a Roman god.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but some kind of superhuman, you’re kind of ass.” Rogers breezes into the room, taking up residency right next to Tony.

Howard, meanwhile, is cracking up. Tony doesn’t know whether to accept his dad’s ecstatic approval of his smarmy pickup lines with grace or to reevaluate everything he’s ever done in life, immediately. He goes for neither. “I’m a scientist. I wasn’t born this way.”

“You modified your genetic structure?”

“I created a serum,” Tony corrected Howard. “To make a super-soldier.”

He sounds smug because he is. Tony’s dad worked on a serum like the one he’s created right up until the car crash that stole his life. Bruce Banner took over Howard’s work, and it still backfired. The fact that Tony’s sitting here, completely ripped, means that he was able to do what his father and one of his best friends – both certified geniuses – couldn’t.

“Bullshit. If someone had developed a super soldier serum, I’d know about it.”

Jarvis is suitably offended that Howard didn’t say _horse dung_. Tony misses him; the eighty year old, crotchety version of him that use to stalk Master Stark around the house, picking up after his toys, anyway. He’s having trouble rectifying the version of Jarvis he grew up with and this skinny, tall, young man.

“I developed one.” Tony grins. “You didn’t know about it.”

Because it happened sixty years in the future, but who cares?

“And what does being a super soldier entail, exactly?”

It’s Captain Rogers who pipes up. He’s watching Tony with a guarded expression, those brilliant blue eyes of his too close, too interested.

“Erm. I look awesome naked?”

“Charming,” Jarvis drawls. Peggy rolls her eyes. Tony wonders if they’re performing a fist bump under the table.

The Captain, for his part, sighs heavily. It almost covers the sound of Howard’s appreciative laughter. Almost. Taking pity on the American icon, Tony elaborates, “I’m not sure. Strength, accelerating healing. I’m noticing an increase in strategic thought, but I was already decent at that.”

“You don’t seem certain.”

Tony waves the accusation away. Then he confirms it, because, “It’s only been three days since I started human testing. With myself.”

“That seems unwise.” Howard bares his teeth. “But bold. Very bold.”

“Elaborate,” Rogers prompts, with the air of a man who is used to being obeyed.

“Must I?”

“You walked into that field for a reason. You were looking for me.” He’s got the same calm, commanding countenance as Maria Hill, but on her Tony finds it obnoxious.

On Captain Rogers…yeah. He also finds it obnoxious.

“Was I?”

Rogers squeezes the table, looking for all the world like he wishes he had on his metal suit that the wood would warp under his fingers. “You’re frustrating.”

“You are not the first person who has told me that,” Tony tells him. Howard makes a noise that sounds like agreement, and oh, Tony’s not ready for solidarity-time with his dad. He backtracks, quickly, “Okay, I’m ready to talk. I’m from the future.”

“The future,” Peggy echoes, dubious. This time it’s Jarvis who is rolling his eyes.

Howard, though. Howard looks like he might believe Tony’s story. And Rogers?

Rogers wants to know why anyone would ever leave the space age.

“People don’t travel back in time on vacation.” He pauses. “I think. I think people don’t travel back in time for vacation. So why did you, uh. Do it?”

“Easy.” Tony reaches out to pat the Captain’s shoulder, but pulls back with a cheeky smile when he sees how Rogers glares. He’s going to love this news.

“Big guy, I’m here to save your life.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quick note on the math regarding the H-Bomb in this: I didn’t make it up. There’s a handy tool called nuke map, which lets you stick a pin in a map and check out what kind of damage a nuclear weapon would do, including casualties and fallout. No one in the right minds would attack a city (period, there should be a period there) with a bomb the size of the one used in the Ivy Mike test (the first thermonuclear weapon test ranging in the megatons). Our current arsenal doesn’t even contain a nuke that would create that much fallout. But, in an alternate history where everything’s the same except the Russians are as advanced as the U.S., it would have been the only H-Bomb in their arsenal. 
> 
> Quick note about me calling the nuke map handy; I study nonproliferation in school, and am probably not a weirdo, I swear.

_1943_

Steve saves Bucky.

It’s one of the most exhilarating moments in his life; for the first time, he’s more than a man, more than a soldier. He’s invincible. Every bullet bounces right off his chest, every attempt at striking him glances away from the armor. Sometimes, all he has to do is look at an attacker, and they piss their pants, or run, or faint. He’s a monster and a hero, all at once.

Except, sometimes being a hero doesn’t work out the way you want it to. Can’t save everyone.

Steve loses Bucky, and, a little bit afterwards, he loses himself.

* * *

 

_1952_

No one actually buys Tony’s time travel story. That is because they are sensible people with good sense.

“The footage was compelling,” Peggy says. “But to say he came back in time is-“

“Completely and utterly ludicrous,” Jarvis agrees. Tony still can’t believe he’s an _agent_.

“Much like that goatee,” Peggy concludes. “We can’t possibly contemplate the ravings of a madman-“

“-particularly without knowing his motives?”

Tony listens to Peggy and Jarvis bicker over whether or not he’s insane, while Howard and Captain Rogers stay suspiciously mum. If anything, this incident has clearly livened up what would otherwise be a dull day at the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Gold star for Tony Stark.

Never mind that he wouldn’t even consider listening to his own cockamamie-cum-epic adventure if he was in their shoes, but Tony’s a cynic. He’d thought his dad was too. Then Howard says, “It’s not completely impossible.”

“It’s not?” That’s Captain Rogers, who has his face carefully schooled. If he’s shocked that he’s going to die, he’s not giving anything away.

Howard spreads his hands across the table. “Nothing’s impossible. I saw the reel of what this guy did, live. If he has traces of a serum, it’ll be in his bloodstream.”

“And only people from the future can make this serum? Howard, really.” Peggy sighs. “Your arrogance is getting the better of you.”

“Peg, do you know how long I’ve been working on this? I know you’re more brawn than brain, but-“

“Sir-“

“You act like that’s an insult. At least I don’t hide behind the car every time a firework goes off.”

“That was once, once, damn you-“

“Sir!”

“Everybody, shut up. If Howard says we don’t have the tech for that,” Rogers waves a hand at Tony, “Then let’s go with it. He usually knows what he’s talking about.”

“Usually,” Peggy agrees, but there’s bite in it.

Howard brightens. “We can test Mr. Rhodes. Keep him in lockup.”

“He has to have another agenda. Why would anyone want to kill Steve?” Jarvis asks, clearly a tad starstruck.

“Why wouldn’t anyone want to kill Steve?” Peggy counters, clearly not. She dated Rogers, Tony remembers. It didn’t work out.

But not for bad reasons. Tony’s Aunt Peggy spoke fondly of Captain America for most of his life. Even if the gleam of potential romance had worn away with time, she still had stores of admiration and respect for him.

Less so for Tony; Peggy took over running the SSR when Tony’s dad died, and somewhere along the line, their viewpoints began to clash. Peggy thought the Kremlin should be made to pay for everything they’d done. For a long time all Tony cared about was getting paid and getting laid. It was only after she’d passed that he came to realized how bad things were, and how much America needed him to fight.

He never got to apologize for that.

He’s certainly not going to start now, when she’s eyeing him like he belongs in a federal penitentiary, or maybe a big white room with no knob on the door.

“Do you want to kill Steve?” Jarvis switches the question around. “You say you’re here to stop an assassination, but you’re likely the instrument of his demise. Your augmented strength makes you a weapon.”

“Agent Jarvis, if he wanted to kill me, he could have done it out in the field.” Rogers supplies. Tony hadn’t really thought of that, but he supposes it explains why Steve didn’t restrain him on their way back to headquarters.

“Why don’t we let Mr. Rhodes answer that question?” Howard suggests sweetly.

There are traces of derision in his voice; now that he knows he gets to sample Tony’s blood, he probably doesn’t care about the rest of the story. Always in it for the science, not the mundane details afterwards. Tony imagines if cell phones existed in the fifties, he’d be playing games under the desk. Like father, like son.

“I’m not interested in killing Captain Rogers.”

“But you’re interested in saving Captain Rogers?” Peggy snorts. It’s very unladylike. “Why?”

Gamely, Tony launches into a recap of how desolate the future is. He makes sure to focus on the hard-hitting subjects, like the lack of personal freedoms and the war camps rather than personal insults, like the vodka distillery that bought Johnny Walker.

Rogers covers his eyes with his hand and asks, “Do the Soviets even have the technological infrastructure for a fusion device?”

“We’ve got it,” Howard replies, less jovial now that his expertise is actually needed. “I worked on it. We’ve already run two tests this year.”

“We’re talking yield in the megaton range. D.C. was decimated,” Tony adds. “The fallout spread all the way to the southern tip of Maine.”

“Casualties?” Rogers inquires. He’s not asking if there were any – he wants to know _how many_.

The answer is going to break his heart, Tony knows. “Over a million. Not counting the survivors dosed with radiation. I don’t think anyone’s even tried to count the spike in cancer cases on the east coast.”

Peggy asks quietly, “Did we rebuild?”

“Not D.C. No one goes there, now. It’s a graveyard.”

There’s still rumors about grotesquely mutated men living in the sewers of New York, too, but Tony chooses not to tell her that.

“Now I really hope you’re lying,” Howard tells him.

Tony can’t argue with that.

* * *

 

He spends nearly a week in a cell at the SSR, being poked and prodded with needles ( _thanks, Dad_ ) and interrogated for hours on end by the less-than-intimidating team of his childhood butler and his favorite aunt.

Tony gets the caution. If someone showed up at Stark Tower claiming to be from the future, they wouldn’t have even made it to the conference room. But the fifties were a more civilized place, in some ways. Warfare was still supposed to be _gentlemanly_. And, apparently, even if someone restraining potential lunatics has to be that way as well.

That’s the only explanation for why, every morning, Rogers drops by to see him. All of StratCom thinks Tony’s a freaking maniac, but Rogers isn’t all that bothered by it. Once daylight hits the sky, he settles down outside of Tony’s metal cage and peppers him with questions about the future.

It doesn’t matter that the Captain clearly isn’t convinced Tony’s vision of the future even exists. He’s still got to be _nice_ about it.

When they’re not talking about Tony’s suspected break with reality, Rogers reads him the paper, or talks about films he’s seen, or prattles on about whatever has struck his fancy on that particular day.

“You don’t have to keep visiting me,” Tony tells him at one point.

Captain Rogers pauses.

“I thought you might be lonely.”

Tony laughs at that. He’s spent his entire life lonely. It’s never seemed to bother anyone before. “I’m okay. Promise.”

The Captain shrugs. “Maybe I’m not. I’ve got a bum heart and a big metal suit, and they tell me I’m saving the world.”

Tony thinks about that. About how Captain America is the only one of his kind, the only clown running around in costume, being placed on a pedestal. Talk about lonely. “You are saving the world. We have books about you, you know. Where I’m from.”

Rogers says, “Books, huh? Not sure whether to be flattered or scared.”

“Skeletons in your closet?”

“No. Just. Lately, I feel like I don’t belong here anymore. I was a soldier. I was a leader. Now I’m a spy, and there’s something about that that isn’t right.”

He sits back on his hands, pinning Tony with his level gaze. The dim glow of his arc reactor protrudes from his chest, and Tony idly thinks that he could help Steve build a more efficient model. This one needs to be taken out and recharged. It’s not a fun process.

“You’ve got ethical qualms about being Captain America.”

“I’ve got ethical qualms about lurking. Like a big, creepy lurker.”

“Is it because you want the spotlight back?” Tony guesses. “You spent the forties as an icon. Now you and the suit only show up at political rallies and dinner galas. That could make a man feel like a figurehead.”

“Not at all. I’ve never wanted anyone to look at me, Mr. Rhodes. I only ever wanted to keep my country free.”

“Huzzah for the old red, white, and blue.” Tony scrutinizes him, looking for any trace of deceit. He never really bought into the whole patriot-to-end-all-patriots origin story that history gave Steve Rogers, but now he’s thinking it might be true. This man is genuine, achingly so, every bone in his body dedicated to the cause. Tony would find it patriotism didn’t also give him hives.

Of course, the only kind of patriotism Tony had ever been instructed in involved a country he never even visited until he was old enough to run Stark Industries. He says, “You’re against reconnaissance?”

“Intelligence is a necessary evil. I know that. I’m just not sure if I’m the one who should be gathering it.”

“What do you do with a soldier when he stops being a soldier?” Tony asks aloud, and it’s as much of an agreement as he’s willing to offer. “The world needs you more than you know, Captain. Don’t give up quite yet.”

The Captain shifts, uncomfortably. “Call me Steve, okay? I think you’ve earned it.”

“I prefer honey pie, but I guess Steve will do as well.”

Tony flashes a quick, sharp smile. Rogers – no, Steve – rolls his eyes. Tony is obviously growing on him.

Like fungus.

“Your friend, in the future. He really thinks I’m the key to all of this?”

“He does.”

“But you’re here now. You’ve got the information we need to stop the bomb.”

“No. I can tell you where and when it’s going to hit, but even I don’t know who gave the launch order, or why. Some rumors even say it was a mistake that the Soviets took advantage of.” There’s more to it than that. There’s also the question of why the U.S. didn’t launch an immediate counterattack, but protocols weren’t as clear back then, and Steve probably doesn’t need to know the nitty gritty of what Tony has spent a large portion of his life agonizing over. “Most of our intelligence agencies dissolved right after the attack. Unofficially, the SSR lives on, but even we haven’t been able to pin down what happened that day.”

“And you think I can stop it. Change everything,” Steve muses. “That’s a pretty big responsibility.”

Tony flutters his eyelashes. “Good thing you’ve got such broad shoulders with which to carry it.”

“You’re ridiculous. Is everyone in the future like you?”

“Baby doll, I’m one of a kind,” Tony tells him, and Steve looks like he regrets ever sitting down in the first place. But also kind of amused, so Tony counts it as a win.

* * *

 

Howard’s test results come back the morning after Tony’s seventh day incarcerated.

Tony suspects that the actual test took less time than all the retrials that Howard put Tony’s bloodwork through. Finding out a super soldier serum exists is clearly a blow that his dad will never, ever forgive.

At least, Tony assumes that’s why he’s torturing him.

In the ten minutes that have transpired since releasing Tony from his prison cell and into the glass-walled conference room, Howard has – in excruciating detail – described every girl he’s dropped trou around in at least the past month.

It’s a lot of girls, which Tony would high five any other man for. Because any other man is not his dad. Who he is now trying really, really hard not to visualize naked.

Howard’s midway through a description of this leggy, blonde, Swedish model who sounds like she has a sassiness-level that at least meets if not exceeds Pepper’s league (not possible), when Agents Carter and Jarvis tromp through the door. They look grumpy.

Tony has been eating prison food all week. He can do grumpy with the best of them.

“So now that we’ve figured out I have magical future blood, what’s the plan?”

Howard opens his mouth, probably a bit piqued the rest of the model story can’t come spilling out.

Tony does not ever want to hear about how that story ends. He also has a new appreciation for the kind of things his mother was willing to put up with. That is neither here nor there.

He tries to give the agents his full attention, sending _dear god, don’t talk to me ever again_ vibes his dad’s way.

“We think you’re telling the truth,” Peggy concedes. She sounds exhausted, like admitting that out loud is the hardest thing she’s done all day.

Howard nods with untampered enthusiasm. “What Peg means is that we know you’re telling the truth, and so now we’re going to keep you.”

That can’t be good.

“Keep me?” Tony asks. He definitely does not squeak. Absolutely, definitely not. “What exactly does that entail?”

Peggy glances at Jarvis. Jarvis glances at Howard. Howard glances at Peggy. It’s a conspiracy of glances.

“The way we see it, we’ve got two options. You’re either going to go back to the future-“

“Can’t,” Tony supplies. “I’d have to rebuild the machine that helped me come here.”

Which he can totally do. It just took him and Reed combined about…oh…seven years?

“That’s what we were betting.” Peggy places her palms on the table. “Mr. Rhodes, it seems to us that this is a suicide mission.”

Tony has nothing to say to that.

“If you succeed,” Jarvis says delicately, “You’ll cease to exist.”

“My entire future will cease to exist. Hopefully, a better one will take its place.”

That’s what he promised Pepper; the two of them, together, in a better version of the world. What he didn’t tell her is that nothing is absolute. A single flap of a butterfly’s wing, and he isn’t born, or she isn’t, or both of them never even exist. Maybe they do, but they never meet. Maybe they meet, and this time, their relationship works out. It’s all ephemeral, hypothetical. _Unreal_ , is the point.

“So you have a year, to find out.”

“If I’m going to disappear off the face of the earth? Yeah. Pretty much.”

Jarvis poses an interesting question. “Why not spend it doing something good?”

“I consider myself a philanthropist.” Tony examines his cuticles, trying not to appear eager. “What did you have in mind?”

“Team up with Captain America. Be a hero.”

“Steve is a spy,” Tony points out, never one to shy away from the truth.

Howard grins. “Be a spy.”

“Eh.” Tony swivels in his chair, eyeing all three; who are actually spies themselves. And damned good ones. They’re the leaders of the SSR, and yet they don’t have to live the way Steve does, half in shadow, half in light. Tony thinks about what he’d said, about wanting to protect his country. He thinks about loneliness and asks, “Steve’s got a gimmick. Would I have to carry a dumb looking shield too?”

“I designed that shield,” Howard supplies proudly. “I could design something for you. We could make you a whole costume. How do you feel about chainmail?”

“How do you feel about chainmail?” Tony retorts, growing increasingly worried about his dad’s medieval kink. Then he remembers the conversation of ten minutes ago and decides, “Never mind, don’t answer that. What does Steve think about all of this?”

His absence is conspicuous, after a whole week of constant presence.

“He’s on a mission,” Peggy says. Her dark, clever eyes follow Tony’s every move. “And we’d like to test you out. The question then becomes, would you like to join him?”


	5. Chapter 5

_1944_

Steve’s face is on posters in his hometown of Brooklyn, but there’s no one there who knows him anymore.

Peggy sees the sadness in his eyes. She’s there when Steve feels like he’s the only remnant of a bygone era; one where he and Bucky lit up the town. They had the best of childhoods, tight on money, but free on mischief. At least they lived before he died.

That’s what Steve tells Peggy, one quiet night when the stars stretch high and bright over Europe. It’s their sixth date. A few weeks back, she promised him a dance, and after piloting a plane straight into the Atlantic and zipping free in his armor, he whisked her to a smoky club to do just that. Peggy didn’t even seem to mind that Steve is a terrible dancer.

One long, hazy night turned into another, and another. Now he’s got his hand on Peggy’s stockinged calf, and she’s looking at him with a kind of kindness that not many people afford soldiers.

“You’re the only good thing I know,” Steve tells her. He knows from the way her eyes widen that he’s moving too fast, but he can’t stop himself. He feels like his life is one loss after the next, from his mom to Bucky to his own damned, defective heart. The steady blue glow of the arc reactor in his chest reminds Steve that nothing is permanent, especially not life. “I want to marry you.”

Peggy’s perfect, red lips form an even more perfect ‘o’ of surprise. Steve isn't blind to the doubt in her eyes. He can see how much she likes him, but he can also see how not-ready she is. Peggy has a career; she's got a journey. What Peggy is doing is something so few women Steve has met have managed, steadily rising in rank and prestige, and skyrocketing to the top of her field. It’s not fair of him to ask her to set aside everything just to wear his ring.

That doesn’t mean Steve takes the words back. Peggy says, “I love you, Steven,” and kisses him.

She kisses him so that she doesn’t have to say no.

* * *

 

_1952_

 

What Tony wants more than anything is a drink.

The problem is, even if he had a glass in hand, it wouldn’t do shit. Taking the serum was clearly the single worst decision he ever made.

He doesn’t mean that, probably. Rhodey is back in the future, safe – or in a KGB holding cell, if Carol spilled her guts – and that means all of this was worth it. Never send your best friend to do something ridiculously dangerous when you can do it yourself; that’s Tony Stark’s motto.

Still. He’d kill for a buzz right now. Hell, even a nice, brutal hangover.

The thing that’s happening is, he’s touring his summer home in the French countryside. Only, no one in it has any idea that one day, far in the future, this grand manor is going to be one of Tony’s fifteen summer homes. Which means that the grand tour has run over four hours, with Jarvis elucidating every single piece of artwork Howard has purchased since the place was built.

Which is a problem, because other than oil paintings of himself, Tony has absolutely zero interest in art. That was always Pepper’s job, back home; picking out the most tasteful, expensive pieces to make Stark Tower and all of Tony’s other residences look lived in. She was really good at that job.

Tony misses Pepper. And Rhodey. And Bruce. He misses Director Hill, even; mostly the little tick of displeasure that develops between the corner of her eyebrow and her pursed lips every time Tony talks.

“This vase,” Jarvis says, “Is from the Ming Dynasty. It was crafted by a skilled man at-“

Tony grits his teeth.

Peggy is watching him. She has been all day, her mistrust evident. Tony watches back from his peripherals, wondering if she might try to stab him in his sleep to prevent them all the heartbreak of finding out whether or not he really is the enemy. He wouldn’t put it past her. She’s pragmatic, his Aunt Peggy.

She’s also the only one who gave a big, fat ‘no’ vote when Howard offered to let Tony stay at his place. Well, the only one other than Tony, who really isn’t interested in having this much of a family reunion. His dad, struck by the notion that having another techno-geek around will be awesomesauce, seems convinced that if he follows Tony around like a lovesick puppy dog, eventually they will science together.

As a kid, all Tony wanted was to be his dad’s lab assistant. He grew out of that phase.

It doesn’t help that the manor is apparently home to practically all of SSR, with agents flitting in and out the doors every five seconds. The constant influx of suits is making Tony beyond paranoid, always on the lookout for a mole or a future-sent KGB agent. Of course, Tony might be ginormous hypocrite for judging. He’s been loaning his digs out to Pepper and Rhodey for years. He took Bruce in with speed usually afforded to the littlest, cutest stray kitten. And he basically painted a giant banner for his own time’s branch of the SSR.

But those are _his_ people, and Howard’s version of the SSR is full of strangers. Tony can flinch if he wants to.

“-the tradesman died at the turn of the century, but his work is exemplar-“

Dear god, the man can prattle. Tony remembers being five and listening to Jarvis deliver long, authoritarian lectures on the importance of manners.

He also remembers that Jarvis told the best bedtime stories, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Tony!” A voice calls down the hall, blessedly interrupting Jarvis’s eight minute spiel about a vase that Tony broke when he was nine. On purpose.

It’s Steve, Tony sees, and he gets a thrill at being on a first name basis with Captain America. His childhood self would be so proud.

Tony turns his back on Jarvis and Peggy, striding confidently down the halls like he owns them. He’s a little taller than he was the last time he was here – stupid serum – and hits his head on a low hanging archway, but he awards himself a gold star for never losing his swagger. “Hey, you.”

Steve grins, all wide and perfect. Looks-wise, he would have fit right in with all the pretty douchebags Tony met in boarding school, except that smile of his required way less dental surgery. Tony is never sure whether to be daunted or impressed.

“Howard mentioned you were moving in. Have you seen your room yet? It’s right next to mine.”

Tony has. He’s got four walls and a bed, which is pretty much all he needs. There’s no sentimentality attached to the wing of the house he’s installed in; when he would visit France with his parents, he’d always stay in the master suites. They’re Howard’s alone, now.

Steve’s clearly been staying here for a while, though. His room has an adjacent studio, all soft northern light and paint-splattered white walls. It’s nothing at all like his bedroom, which is done up a no-nonsense beige color and features little else other than an alarm clock and sensible nightstand.

Tony supposes that’s because the studio is Steve’s workshop, and like Tony’s lab back home, it sees him far more lonely nights than his bed ever has.

“I made sure to store all my nonexistent belongings in it,” Tony agrees. “Agents Jarvis and Carter were just showing me around the place.”

“Oh.” Steve’s big, blue eyes widen. “I can leave you to it, if you want.”

Tony grabs the bottom of his shirt. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with them.”

The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “That bad?”

“I think Agent Carter has designs on murdering me with a pair of panty hose.” Tony cocks his head to the side.

“She doesn’t trust you.” Steve glances back at Tony’s aunt and former manservant. Their heads are bowed together in quiet conversation. “Peggy will come around.”

“Will she, Steve? Will she?” Tony doesn’t comment on the brief, wistful tone Steve’s voice has taken on. “I think Agent Jarvis is the one to watch out for, though. He clearly plans on inducing me into death by boredom. Did you know that every single thing in this place has an extensively dull history?”

Steve snorts. “You’ve got no appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“I appreciate women, whiskey, and impeccably tailored suits. Those are the finest things life has to offer.” Tony sours a little, recalling that whiskey is now off the table for all eternity.

“Now you sound like Howard,” Steve says, not unkindly.

Still, mouth gaping open, Tony demands, “You take that back!”

Steve holds his hands up, palms towards Tony. “Rescinded. I know he’s a bit much, but that reaction was-“

“Completely justified?”

“Or overkill, but we can go with justified if you like.” Steve’s grin hasn’t slipped, not even once. He’s giving Tony his full, earnest attention. It’s disorienting. “You know, since you’re a scientist-“

“Physicist,” Tony corrects. “And engineer. And a lot of other things, so yeah, maybe let’s go with scientist.”

Steve lifts his eyebrows, but continues, “Since you’re a _scientist_ , would you maybe like a lab?”

When Tony thinks of labs, he thinks of the comforting hum of Dummy’s gears whirring, the steady voice of Jarvis over the speakers set into his ceiling. He thinks of tech more advanced than anything extant here; but the 1950s can’t help being limited by the fact that it’s the 1950s. Tony agrees, “I maybe would. If it wasn’t anywhere near my da- erm. Mr. Stark’s lab.”

“Howard’s trying to get you to tell all your future-secrets, isn’t he?”

“Every single one.”

“I’ll talk to him about that.” Steve crosses his arms. “I think I know a place where you can work in private. But if anyone asks, you found it on your own.”

“Why Steve, the history books never mentioned that you were devious.” Tony considers. “I like it.”

Steve’s cheeks pink. He mutters, “I can’t believe they wrote about me.”

“They did more than that. There’s a handful of films,” Tony tells him.

“Films?” Steve squeaks (in a completely manly way. Except not. At all).

“My favorite one is called the Well Endowed Captain,” Tony tells him, because fucking with peoples’ heads is his favorite pastime. And also that video totally exists. Pepper streamed it off the interwebs, one time.

“You’re making that up,” Steve tells him, turning pale. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”

“I cannot tell a lie, sweetums.” Tony is laughing now, a full-bellied thing that he’s not sure he’s experienced in weeks. Steve is growing an increasingly concerning shade of white, though, so he adds, “I kid, I tell lies constantly. Breathe, Cap.”

It’s not like Steve will ever really find out that there’s lucrative porno business based on Soviet black widows taking out Captain Ameri-can’t.

Steve says, “You are quite possibly the most bizarre man I’ve ever met. And I know Howard Stark.”

“Who am I to one up Howard Stark?” Tony asks. “I’ll tone it down.”

“Don’t.” Steve replies. Blue eyes serious, he claps Tony on the shoulder and tells him, “I think this place needs some bizarre.”

* * *

 

Tony’s first night at Chateau Stark involves a dinner.

That he did not ask for, nor does he want. He is the ultimate houseguest, in that he’s a complete and total recluse, and really, he just wants to see what kind of robots he can build with the tools that Howard has on hand.

Instead, he is surrounded by an assortment of agents, his father, and Steve, at a rustic French pub. Howard is three sheets to the wind, practicing his parlez français on a busty barmaid while Peggy simultaneously scoffs in disgust and goads him on. Jarvis is sitting off to one side with his wife, Ana, whom Tony can’t for the life of him recall. As a kid, he knew Jarvis was married, but whenever he tries to think of whether this Ana was that Ana, all he can come up with is a dim silhouette in his memory.

Steve is in the middle of an arm wrestling match with a man named Agent Thompson, who is cocky and obnoxious, and Tony likes him very much. Meanwhile, he’s talking shop with a much more subdued version of the standard issue agent, a man named Sousa, who’s got a hobby tinkering with cars and a war wound that Tony has to stop himself from asking to see. Repeatedly.

None of the agents except Steve, Peggy, and Jarvis seem to know Tony’s deal. There wasn’t an SSR-wide announcement calling him future-man or anything. They do, however, know that he’s got extranormal powers and is going to be teaming up with Steve.

“Do you think you can handle that?” Sousa asks. “Rogers is a national icon.”

“He’s a treasure,” Tony agrees with an eye roll. Steve’s a nice guy, but man do they kiss his ass around these parts. “Yet somehow, I think I’ll persevere.”

“Are you going to get a costume?”

Tony shudders, thinking of chainmail. “I hope to holy hell I won’t.”

“You’re getting a costume.” Sousa nods to himself, like Tony hadn’t even answered. “You’ll need a handle, too. Something with a ring to it.”

“I like Iron Man.”

Sousa snorts. “Why not just call yourself Emperor Invincible and leave it at that? You’ll catch a bullet just as quickly.”

“No, I’ll dodge the bullets,” Tony corrects. “Because that is something I can do now.”

“Now?”

Tony pauses. He’s not really supposed to talk about the details of the serum. Probably. Maybe. He weighs how proud he is of his achievements versus the gun he knows Peggy has holstered on her thigh. “How about those Yankees?”

It’s not the smoothest segue, he’ll admit.

Sousa is drunk and rolls with it, happily talking about baseball until Howard sidles up next to them. Howard is apparently great agent repellant; the moment he arrives Sousa is off like a dirty shirt. Interesting.

“Rhodes! I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to ask you about the genetic-“

“Stop right there. I make it a point never to conduct business at bars.” Tony tells him, even though he’s spent most of his life doing exactly that. “So, new subject. What do you think? Is she the one?” He nods towards the barmaid Howard had abandoned, who is now pouring some beer into generously gigantic mugs for Sousa and Peggy.

“There is no _one_ _,”_ Howard announces, plopping down beside him.

Tony can’t imagine his mom loving that proclamation. He takes a sip of his completely ineffective drink and asks, “Come again?”

“Here’s the funny thing about love,” Howard says. “I’m great, and I know I’m great. But the last gal I fell for had me convinced that I was lower than pond scum. How d’you think that happens to a man like me?”

“It’s not always like that,” Tony answers, thinking of Pepper. She destroyed him, a little bit, but she remade him as well. He’s better for having known her.

He’s better for every moment they spent together.

“Not always,” Howard agrees. “But often. I gave that game up a long time ago.”

“So what? You’re never going to go the distance? Get a wife, or a family?”

There’s no accusation in the question. Tony knows a single slip of the tongue could change the course of his own personal history, but he also knows that his mother was one hell of a woman. She waltzed into Howard’s life during a cool spring day that hasn’t even happened yet, and he never, ever looked back.

Tony doubts any idiotic thing he says can mess that up.

Howard shrugs. “I’ve never been the marrying kind. It’s no skin off my back if I never am.”

“You’re so cynical,” Peggy declares, traipsing up with that same round of beer steins. Sousa is watching after her and the beers longingly, but she primly balances them on the bar, and then throws her arms around Howard’s shoulders. “You can’t tell me there’s not a single person out there you haven’t come to care for.”

Tony notices the way his dad glances towards Jarvis.

Tony notices and does not say a word.

“Not a one,” Howard tells her, leaning into her embrace.

Peggy pats his cheek and accuses, “Liar. Mr. Rhodes, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Love,” Peggy prompts. “Do you have a special someone, in the future?”

“I’ve had multiple special someones,” Tony leers, the same way he did when he was fifteen and his Aunt Peggy tried to explain to him why he could date two girls at once. She’s so easy to rile up. “I hate limiting myself.”

“And you’re a pig. You and Howard should be great friends.”

“We’re the best of chums, Peg.” Howard’s dark eyes flash. “Shouldn’t you be getting a move on that one true love thing? Your looks won’t hold forever.”

Calmly, Peggy takes a swig of her beer. She says, “If a man’s marrying me for my looks, then he’s little more than a boy. Besides, I’m not ready to settle down.”

“Are you pressuring her, again?” Steve asks, his heat radiating into Tony’s back. For a big guy, he’s surprisingly lithe. Tony didn’t even hear him approach, super senses and all.

“No pressure,” Howard defends himself. “Just turning the spotlight from yours truly.”

“What about you, Steve?” Tony blurts out. “Are you the marrying kind?”

For an awkward moment, Steve, Peggy, and Howard are all very, very quiet. Then Agent Thompson yells, “I want a rematch, Rogers!”

It breaks the tension nicely. Steve says, “No chance,” in a low, clear voice. He says to Tony, “I don’t think marriage is in the cards for me.”

Peggy drops her eyes to the ground in one of the most self-conscious and un-Peggy-like moves Tony has ever seen her make. She says, “Oh, I forgot that I need to talk to Agent Sousa. Over there,” and backs away. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Too bad,” Tony tells Steve. “Think of all the tiny, Aryan children you could have.”

Howard grins. Steve calls him an ass. He doesn’t leave though, so he can’t be too insulted.

Steve asks, “If you only just injected yourself with this serum, you haven’t had much chance to test it, correct?”

Tony freezes, watching as his father visibly lights up. “Well. Er. That is.”

“I’m worried about you accompanying me in the field. You’re not a soldier, Tony. Super though you may be.”

“Yeah, but how hard is the whole chain of command thing to get down, anyway?” Tony tries. “I mean, soldiers are basically civilians who need structure, right?”

Steve glares.

Then he glares some more.

Rhodey probably would have hit Tony for what he said, so Steve’s glaring is not nearly as bad.

“We could run a gauntlet,” Howard suggests, combing right over Tony’s little misfire of the mouth. “Test your limits.”

“We could fight.” Steve brightens. “I wouldn’t mind punching you.”

“That doesn’t hurt my ego at all.” Tony sighs. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to get a say in this?”

“Because you’re not going to get a say in this,” Howard and Steve chorus.

Yeah. That’s pretty much par for the course.


	6. Chapter 6

_1945_

1945 is the first year that Steve ever feels ashamed of being an American.

He watches news reels of the bombs that were detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and he wonders why. None of the people in those cities were party to the horrific experimentation in Mongolia, probably. None of them had a hand in subduing the Pacific. They were civilians, plain and simple.

The act wins them the war, but that makes it even worse. Because then the war is over, and he isn’t needed anymore.

There’s this moment where Steve feels useless. There’s a lot of them, really.

Bucky is gone and things with Peggy ended a while ago. They’re in different places, and Steve can’t fault her for that. He admires her ambition, her determination, and how unshakably strong she is. Only, she’s rising in management at the SSR, dragging Steve along for the ride.

Serving his country from the shadows feels not quite like the right thing to do. Steve was never meant to be a spy.

He still gets icon-outings; he shakes hands with politicians and their sparkly-dressed wives. He kisses babies’ fat cheeks. Steve even cameos in a film or two. But his actual work? It’s quiet. Lowdown. Never quite verging on political assassinations or anything shady, just.

Nothing that makes him feel especially heroic, either.

He doesn’t mind reconnaissance or paperwork. He doesn’t mind slow days. Spying on American citizens, or allies; that’s a thing he minds. Steve doesn’t need to be a hero. He doesn’t need accolades, or media attention, or his own set of trading cards.

All he wants is to feel like he’s protecting America and making the world a better place.

He tells Howard that, once. Howard says, “Steve, that’s the definition of heroism.”

Right then, Steve doesn’t have his dictionary handy. He doesn’t know what the definition of heroism is. All he knows is that it’s probably the opposite of what he’s doing.

But he’s a soldier. If the SSR and the President insist that they’ve got to keep an eye on the ground, on _everyone_ , then he’s going to follow orders. Even if they take him straight to hell.

 ---

_1953_

This fist to the face thing that Steve suggested is not fun.

It’s not like Tony’s never taken a hit before, okay? He had a personal trainer living on one of the lower floors of Stark Tower. He and Pepper were in the middle of learning Krav Maga, and sometimes Tony also took yoga with Rhodey and Bruce, which involved a lot of flailing on Rhodey’s part. The man _accidentally_ caught Tony in the face more than strictly seemed accidental. Plus, boarding school was pretty much a breeding ground for Cro-Magnon rugby players with more brawn than brain, and that earned Tony a shiner or five.

But getting hit with a giant metal fist is different.

Tony peels himself off the wall, groaning. He doubts Steve is smiling, but the grim lines of the Captain America armor’s mask totally emulate a grin. The bastard is primed and ready for battle, and Tony’s cheekbone may or may not be broken.

It may or may not also be in the process of healing while he climbs to his feet, which is pretty fucking cool. But whatever, Tony can gloat about how awesome he and his science-ing are later. Right now, he really, really wants to kick some star spangled ass.

He kicks into a run, figuring the more momentum he has, the better chance there is that he can dent Captain America’s stupid, shiny faceplate. It has absolutely zero effect, but the crunch of his knuckles against metal is satisfying. And painful.

Mostly painful. New plan.

Tony ducks under Captain America’s outstretched fist, the hit nearly clipping his shoulder. He spins behind Steve, moving so quickly on the ball of his foot that it makes him dizzy. He wrenches the edge of the shield clipped via some kind of voodoo with magnetic fields to the suit.

It’s great tech. Resentfully, Tony thinks that his dad might just be a genius.

The thought is forcibly ejected from his head when Steve tries to shake Tony off, flailing his arms in an attempt to reach back. The suit arm’s mobility limits him, and when that doesn’t work, he leaps into the air, repulsors at full blast.

Tony’s quick to jam his feet around the slippery surface of Captain America’s ankles, his newfound intuitive grace the only thing that saves him from a quick fall and a broken neck. Then, with one arm looped around Steve’s neck, he tries the same move as he had with the Soviet agent, bringing the shield down on the suit’s clavicle. Steve doesn’t crumple like the guy from the KGB, but he does go all wobbly in mid-air before course correcting them both into a wall.

Tony’s spine hits the surface hard, the full force of Captain America crushing his windpipes, but he uses the leverage to push Steve back and away. Those eerie, glowing blue eyes glare at him.

“Had enough?” Steve asks in his mechanical voice.

“Never.” Tony flexes his fingers, thinking less in words and more in angles. He hefts the red, white, and blue vibranium like a Frisbee, and when he throws it, he catches Steve right in the chest.

This time, the suit falls to one knee, and Tony uses that to his advantage, pushing off against the ground, and then Steve’s thigh to drive his elbow down into the weak spot at Captain America’s neck. Steve makes a muffled groan that sounds vaguely like _ow_ , but mostly reads as static feedback.

Not quite panting, Tony grins and tells him, “I still think shields are stupid.”

Steve uses that moment to buck him back into that poor, crumbling wall, and yeah. Tony really, definitely hates this fist to his face thing.

\---

“You weren’t terrible,” Peggy tells him afterwards, which is one of the nicest compliments she’s given him since he arrived in 1952. Which is now 1953, actually. Tony’s been stuck in the past for a full month and a half.

“That’s all the praise a man can ask for,” Tony replies.

Jarvis sniffs. “You can always trust Agent Carter to tell it like it is.”

Tony knows. It’s one of the things he always liked about Aunt Peggy. But if he said so out loud, it would disrupt his strict policy of consistently being an asshole, so instead he says, “Then why hasn’t she told you to lose the ascot?”

“Nonsense. You look quite dapper, Mr. Jarvis.” It’s nauseating how they treat each other with such complete and utter respect, years after their first meeting. Tony’s the kind of person who calls people honey bear five seconds into introductions. Different strokes for British folks, he guesses. Peggy continues, “Mr. Rhodes, you certainly can handle yourself in the field. I suppose you’ll make Steve an adequate partner.”

“As long as I’m adequate,” Tony replies, miffed.

He doesn’t want to be anyone’s _partner_ , honestly, but he hasn’t figured out how to argue his way out of this yet, and he was better than adequate out there. He was magnificent.

Alright, there’s a bit of a learning curve on this new body. Magnificent might be going a bit far.

But he was definitely better than average.

“Your face is going to stick that way.” Steve saunters into the room in a pair of military issue slacks, with a sweat soaked wife beater and a towel slung around his neck. The shirt is so wet it’s nearly translucent in places, clinging tightly to Steve’s all-natural musculature. He’s definitely not…unattractive.

It’s indecent, is what it is. Tony swallows. He’s abruptly finding it a teensy bit harder to breathe. He’s got a rapidly healing black eye and three cracked ribs, though, so he’s going to blame it on that. “Where have you been? Nursing your wounds?”

Steve cocks an eyebrow and throws himself into the chair next to Peggy. “Briefing Howard. He’s refusing to leave the lab today.”

“Which makes it a day like any other,” Peggy says briskly. She does a remarkably good job of not ogling the outline of Steve’s abs through his shirt, but Tony supposes that’s because she’s been up close and personal with them before. “I was just telling Mr. Rhodes that he’s cleared for field work.”

“We’ll have to get him outfitted,” Jarvis adds.

Peggy nods, the ghost of a smile curling her lips. “I’d heard something about chainmail?”

This is normally the part where Tony asks if she’s into kinky shit, but in a few decades the same woman will be baking him ginger snaps and teaching him how to hit center mass with a Smith and Wesson, so he’s going to pass hard on that one. He thinks for half a second about asking if Jarvis is into kinky shit, only somehow that’s even worse.

Tony chokes against bile and changes the subject. “Do they make bagels in France? Because I could really go for a bagel.”

Steve throws his head back and audibly moans. “I’d love a bagel.”

“I’m taking that to mean France is a no on the bagels.” Tony pauses. “Are you drooling right now? I think you’re drooling, Captain Actionpants.”

Peggy interrupts with a vehement headshake, dark curls spilling everywhere. “You’re not staying in France, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Oh thank god.” Tony wrinkles his nose. “If I eat too many baguettes, they go straight to my hips.”

“Even with the super metabolism?” Jarvis asks, sniffing.

That…had not occurred to Tony. Probably because he eats whatever he wants all the time anyway. But for the sake of it he slams a hand on the table and proclaims, “I’ll never diet again!” He swivels his head towards Peggy, who looks like she hates pretty much everything about her life. “Where are we headed, Agent?”

“We’ve got word that they’re planning an assault out of East Germany. We’re not sure of the target, but that shouldn’t matter if you stop it before they get up and running.”

“East Germany is right inside the Bloc,” Steve says, cutting his eyes towards Tony. “Can we handle that many enemy combatants if things go south?”

“If you’re worried about whether or not I can be discrete,” Tony considers. “It’s probably a valid concern. I’m usually the distraction from the covert op, not dead center in it.”

“You’ll learn on the job,” Peggy decides.

Jarvis nods like a bobble-head, which is to say vigorously. Tony’s still not entirely sure why anyone made him an agent. But after watching his dad watch Jarvis, he’s not sure he even wants to know.

Peggy says, “Relatedly, Mr. Rhodes, I wasn’t joking about the costume. You need to go see Howard.”

Tony groans.

There are worse punishments, probably. Sitting in a locked room with Reed Richards is the only one he can think of, but. Everyone needs to suffer for the cause, right?

\---

Howard’s lab is in the basement of Stark Manor: Resort Edition. Tony assumes he has better digs back in the good old U.S. of A., but he also understands why the SSR took their operation to Europe. In the early 1950s, sleeper agents were the only real threat to American interests on the ground. Otherwise, the country’s capabilities were limited to the near target; the Eastern Bloc, Europe – anything accessible by foot or a small plane.

He thinks about how much the world is going to evolve in the next sixty years, changing even that; the definitions of near and far.

“You want a costume?” Howard appraises him. “I can make you a costume.”

“I can make me a costume too,” Tony retorts. “The thing is I absolutely, definitely don’t want a costume.”

“Nonsense. Every superhero needs a costume. I’m thinking red. And gold.” Howard glances at Steve. “Too flashy?”

“I’m wearing the American flag,” Steve points out.

“You’re right. Flash, bang, it’s all part of the job.”

Tony’s not sure how, seeing that job is basically spy craft and beating the shit out of Soviets, and bright colors seem to contradict at least the latter of those goals. But he can’t imagine Steve stays in the armor during the real reconnaissance work – only for battle. His wartime persona – Iron Man, he remembers joking to Rhodey – will likely be the same.

Turning to Tony, Howard says, “I’ve already got your measurements on file.”

“That’s not even a little bit creepy.”

“It was for science,” his dad replies cheerfully.

“Well, if it’s for science.” Tony rolls his eyes and says, “On a scale of one to ten, how much chainmail will this costume have?”

Howard grins.

“I miss Kevlar,” Tony says. His dad and Steve stare at him blankly. “It’s a thing. A thing that will happen. A thing that does not involve chainmail.”

Instead of reassuring Tony that the level of medieval tailoring will be kept to a minimum, Howard begins babbling happily at Steve, who looks used to the attention, if not pleased by it. Tony excuses himself to go snoop around Howard’s work desk, which is covered in the familiar array of tools, scribbled notes, and stray bits of wire he remembers from his childhood.

There’s a framed picture shoved towards the back of the desk, holding its own place of honor amongst the blueprints and equations. A tiny crack mars the upper right corner of the glass, but otherwise the black and white photo is in mint condition. Tony remembers it being yellowed and faded with time before he had Pepper jam it in storage with everything else that prickled nostalgia along Tony’s spine.

“That was my team,” Steve says, creeping up behind him like a cat. He’s surprisingly light-footed for a soldier. “Dum Dum, Jim,” Steve taps the frame, zeroing in on each face in turn. “Gabe, Monty. Jacques. That’s me, and that’s…that’s Bucky,” Steve tells him. “He died.”

Tony stares, and stares some more. He thinks about saying the words that are on his mind, but he and Steve are kind of in an almost-okay place, and it’s not like Tony needs a friend in this time, exactly, but he likes the idea that he could have one.

So he keeps his mouth shut and does not tell Steve that the last man in the picture is the Winter Soldier, one of the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfuckers on the KGBs payroll.

“Sorry for your loss,” he says, and he attempts to sound legitimately contrite instead of scared shitless. His time’s SSR’s last run in with the Winter Soldier lost them a lot of a good people. They have a guy, Sam Wilson, tracking him across the country now, trying to stage a little revenge of their own.

Tony realizes he’ll never find out if that mission is successful, now. He’ll never know if Rhodey is really safe, or if he’ll ever muster up the courage to pop the question to Carol. He’ll never see Pepper find love again, the kind that she deserves, that dizzying, intoxicating passion that will make her happier than Tony ever could have.

He misses home then, with an intensity that feels like a punch to the gut. Tony wants to be back in 2012, antagonizing Director Hill or comforting Bruce the next time he Hulks out and destroys a microwave, or ridiculing Reed for thinking he’s the smartest man in the universe. He wants to distract Pepper from the day-to-day tasks of running SI until she looks at him with that crazy combination of fondness and exasperation, and he wants to pit his new serum-bought skills against Rhodey’s military training, because he could so win their morning jogs now.

Never mind that there’s no winner in jogging, because jogging is the actual worst.

“Hey.” Steve touches Tony’s shoulder, tentative, but strong gripped. “You okay?”

“I’m.” Tony thinks. His mind is stuttering to a standstill.

He knew before he came here that even if he succeeds in saving Steve, the version of him that exists will cease to do so. He thought he’d made his peace with it. But now, faced with the idea of fading away and never, ever seeing any of the people he cares for again, Tony can’t swallow against his sudden fear.

“I’m,” he says again.

Maybe it’s Steve’s grief over Bucky that’s making him feel this way. Tony has all of three friends, not including the guy who delivers his Chinese food, and in a new future, none of them will even know to mourn for him. But so what? They’ll be safe, and happy, Tony thinks. That’s why he’s doing this.

The vice on his lungs loosens, and he forces out, “Good.”

“You don’t look good.”

“Blasphemy, I always look like God’s gift to mankind.” The retort is easy this time. Tony never scares for long. It’s one of his favorite things about himself. “I really am sorry. About your friend.”

Steve clenches his eyes closed, pain ratcheting across his face for a single, startlingly clear moment. Then he opens his eyes and replies, “It’s an old wound.”

“It’s still a wound.”

“Steve, can I borrow you for a sec?” Howard calls, fiddling with something in the corner of the lab.

He’s perched on a rather splintered wooden bench, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, greased with oil. Tony wonders if that’s what he looks like to other people, back home.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to run this up to Peggy and get her signature. I’d go, but frankly, you’re in better shape.”

“What is it?” Steve asks, with the suspicion of a man who has probably been tasked to prank Peggy Carter in the past.

Beaming, Howard answers, “The design sketch for Mr. Rhodes’s suit.”

“Already?” Tony squawks. He thought he’d have at least a few days to wiggle out of this dumb idea. “Let me see.”

“Nope.” Howard grins, already handing off the rolled up design sheet to Steve, who looks more amused than the situation warrants. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“I hate surprises. And you. Mostly you.” Not for the first or second or fiftieth time, Tony wants a drink to have some kind of tangible effect on him.

“You don’t mean that,” his dad says, sauntering over like he’s not destroying joy. The two of them watch Steve’s retreating back, and then, “Whatcha looking at?”

“You’re nosy,” Tony tells his father.

“Professionally so,” Howard agrees, mustache twitching up. His gaze falls on the photo of the Howling Commandos. “Ah. Steve was telling you about Bucky?”

Automatically, Tony replies, “I don’t like him.”

“You didn’t even know the guy.”

“What’s to get to know? Cap kept making googly eyes at his memory; he was radiating all the warm and fuzzy feelings, and seriously, I’m afraid we’re going to catch it.”

Howard’s lips purse. “Spending time with you feels a lot like babysitting.”

Tony ignores the irony in that statement, barreling on, “I’m just saying, this is not the American way, and it is definitely not the New York way, come on, we are the most disenchanted, disaffected people on the planet, we don’t do rainbows and sparkles and butterflies.

“You make it sound like Rogers was dating him.”

“Wasn’t he?” Tony asks, and then he realizes he’s in the fifties where that was not a thing two men did. Even if his dad – even if he. Well. “I mean, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Show me the design!”

“Not a chance.”

“If I say please, will that make a difference?”

“Not even an iota.”

“Da- amn. Damn.” Tony shuts his mouth before he can fuck up and ask this facsimile of his father to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story.

“Relax, Tony. You’ll look great.”

Tony starts, realizing that this is the first time anyone other than Steve has called him by his first name. More than that; it’s the first time he’s heard his dad say his name since the car accident. There are way too many feelings to unpackage here.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing against something hot and tight in his throat for the second time that day.

It’s days like this he really, really hates having a heart.


	7. Chapter 7

_1946_

“The world needs you, Captain Rogers. Now more than ever.” The SSR therapist watches him through cool, blue eyes.

Her name is Dottie Underwood, Steve knows. And she is a Soviet spy.

Peggy vetted her. Peggy is damn good at her job; she figured out something was wrong the second she started the background check. Now they’re in phase two of the plan; lulling her into complacency. Letting her think she’s gaining valuable intel to carry back home.

“I know. I want to help people. All I’ve ever wanted is to help people.” Steve shoves a hand through his hair, blond skewing everywhere. “I can do it as a hero, I can do it as a man. However I do it, as long as I’m helping, I think that’s all that’s important.”

Dottie smiles, the sharp rows of her teeth flashing. “I agree. So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no one else like me.” Steve gestures around the mahogany paneled office, indicating the larger world outside its windows, where the streets of New York City bustle and move. “I feel like I’m fighting a war that no one else knows is happening.”

“That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

Steve shakes his head, vehement. “It’s isolating. Everyone else I know is going out, getting a family. And I can’t – I can’t do that. I can’t meet a girl and settle down, because…”

“Because you’re an SSR agent.” His identity is still a secret. That much they’ve been able to protect. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” Steve says earnestly, even though he’s more than any agent.

He’s Captain America. He’s the United States’ best weapon after the bomb, and even then, he’s better for precision strikes. No one outside SSR HQ is allowed to even know who he is. He has to lie and tell the girls he meets that he’s an artist, that he was a soldier, and they can never know that he still is.

He can’t even hide it for long; the second he takes off his shirt, they would know. They would see the arc reactor and know that Steve is…flawed.

“I don’t know what to do.” He tells Dottie, finding that he means it. “I’ve lost so much for this job.”

There’s quiet as Dottie considers his words. She’s playing with them, like a cat with a tiny, dangling mouse. When she smiles, it is not a nice thing.

“A word of advice?” Dottie asks.

“Shoot.”

“ _Retire_.”

* * *

 

_1953_

The conversation that flows between Tony and Steve, while easy, borders on antagonistic at times. Steve has pretty clear cut ideas about the way things should be, and Tony shatters that mold time and time again. It makes mornings at Chateau Stark a crapshoot.

Sometimes they’re in perfect accord about whatever topic comes up. Others, like this morning, they’re at each other’s throats. “Tony, you have to eat.”

“Do I though? Do I, Steve?” Tony blinks sleepily over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Howard says your metabolism is faster than a normal human’s. You need fuel.” Steve scratches his own head and looks a little doubtful about the wording of that last part, like he’s repeating Howard’s own words. “Besides, my mom always said breakfast is the best way to start out your day.”

“Oh, well, if Howard says so.”

“Eat, Rhodes.” Agent Thompson brandishes his spatula and a plate of omelets, shoving it impatiently under Tony’s nose. “I didn’t slave away over the stove so that you could refuse my kindness.”

“Leave him alone, Jack,” Agent Sousa says, idly flipping the page on his newspaper. Because those are still a real thing in the fifties, weird. “He’s a full grown man.”

“He’s acting like a picky child,” Thompson retorts, pouting.

“Tony,” Steve tries again.

“I’m not hungry,” Tony protests. “’M never hungry before coffee.” Then he hugs his coffee tighter. “Coffee is my only love.”

“That’s because a real woman wouldn’t look twice at you,” Thompson mutters.

“Shows what you know.” Tony is not pouting. Except he totally is. “Plenty of real women look at me all the time.”

“Do tell,” Sousa says, with a dry air that belies how little he cares. Sousa reminds Tony of Bruce, a bit; he’s got that quiet dignity that makes Tony want to poke him with a stick.

“Hey, I’ve got stories that would make your toes curl – mmph.” Tony can’t quite finish his sentence, because Steve has shoved a piece of toast in his mouth.

Satisfied, Steve brushes crumbs off his hands and says, “There. Breakfast.”

Tony glares at him through his eyelashes, hoping to convey that he will have his revenge. Then he chews the toast because it’s not bad.

“Geez, Tony. Who watches over you where you come from?” Steve asks, amused.

“Nobody.” Tony bristles at the thought. With a quick glance towards Thompson and Sousa, he lowers his voice and continues, “We’re basically operating on the lam, so we’ve got nothing at all going like you all, here. Although when my da- um. When Howard’s the head of the SSR, I’m not saying you couldn’t use increased oversight.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “I wasn’t talking about the SSR. I was talking about you.”

“I’m a grown-ass man. _I_ don’t need looking after.”

“Beg to differ.” Steve settles onto the stool next to Tony. He has flecks of blue paint on his forearms, pale against rolled up shirt sleeves. He must have started the morning in the studio. “Since you’ve been here, you’ve barely eaten.”

“I-“

“Or slept. You’re up all hours, wandering the halls.”

“Are you spying on me?” Tony asks suspiciously.

“Everyone is spying on you,” Thompson says, derisive. “We don’t know who you are.”

Quietly, Steve contradicts him, “I know who you are. The walls are thin.”

Tony doesn’t know what to do with that. He volunteers, “I have a Pepper.”

“What’s a Pepper?” Steve asks.

“My CEO. Well. She used to be my personal assistant. And then my girlfriend. And then not my girlfriend.” Tony scratches his beard. “She does a little of everything.”

“Sounds like a great girl.” Steve smiles, too kind. If there’s anything Tony has learned in the past, it’s that Captain America is much, much kinder than he expected.

Agreeably, Tony replies, “She is.”

“I’m glad that you have people.”

Tony takes a bite of his toast and asks, “Steve. Do you have people?”

The look Steve gives him then is inscrutable. There’s Peggy, Tony knows. Peggy and Howard, Jarvis and Sousa and Thompson, and all the other SSR agents that Tony hasn’t met. Steve is surrounded by a team of capable, intelligent humans, all backing every play he makes. But an ex-girlfriend and a boss and a whole bevvy of coworkers is not quite the same as friends. Tony should know.

When Steve answers, it’s evasive, guarded. A lie. “I get by.”

It’s the first time Tony Stark ever thinks that Captain America might be lonelier than he is.

* * *

 

“Hey,” Steve stands in Tony’s doorway. “Are you ready to head out?”

“Just a second,” Tony replies, stuffing clothes into his duffel bag. It’s not like he has much; the suit he came in and a few other clothing items Howard loaned him.

For the first time in his entire life, Tony’s not rich. His wallet is stocked with useless plastic cards and Soviet cash that might as well be funny money. It is the strangest feeling not to be able to buy whatever he wants. Not that he wants anything.

Howard has been more than generous; it’s the one trait of his father’s he’s glad to have inherited.

Tony is occupied with trying to fold one of the shirts Howard provided; he’s not actually used to handling his own laundry. That’s when a loud metallic noise grabs Steve’s attention. Tony doesn’t bother looking. He can’t seem to get this folding thing down.

“That’s a bizarre looking cat.” Steve stares at the tiny, crude robot, which is repeatedly nudging his foot. “What is it?”

“I like toys. I like building.” Tony shrugs. “I’m an inventor. It’s what I do.”

“That did not answer my question, Tony. At all.”

“It’s a robot.”

“Neat!” Steve drops down to his knees, rubbing a hand over the smooth surface of the metal. “Do you know how neat this is?”

“Says the man who walks around inside a giant robotic suit all day.” Tony blinks. “You’re being completely sincere, aren’t you?”

Nodding emphatically, Steve picks the robot up in his callused hands, twisting it this way and that. The poor thing makes a squeal of indignation.

Okay, not really, Tony didn’t give it any kind of vocal processor, so in reality it just whirs its tiny wheels. But the whirring is indignant. “Hey, careful with the equipment, Rogers.”

Steve’s cheeks pink, and he places the robot cautiously back on the floor. “Sorry. I didn’t. The suit isn’t very delicate, so I thought-“

“Relax, I’m fucking with you. Pick it up, spin it around, check out the gears. If you break it, you don’t have to buy it. I’ll just make a new one.”

“You can do that?”

“Easy apple pie peasy.”

Tentatively, Steve strokes the robot again, like it’s a puppy or something. The gesture is endearing, if Tony was in the mood to be charmed by big, burly spies touching his stuff. “What does it do?”

Tony’s in the mood. He presents Steve with his most enchanting smile. “Absolutely nothing.”

“You built a robot to do…nothing?”

Awkward. Taking a deep breath, Tony admits, “We’ve got a lot of noises in the future. Machines are a way of life. This place…it gets too quiet sometimes.”

Steve’s shoulders slump. “This must be hard for you.”

“Life’s hard for everyone,” Tony replies. “We deal with it the best we can.” He watches the robot squirm in Steve’s hands, and after a minute, he says, “This might be a sinking ship, this whole mission.”

He doesn’t mean them working together for the foreseeable future; he means all of it. Steve’s death. Tony’s future. Life.

But Steve is a hero, through and through. He holds his chin in the air, stubbornly brave. “I don’t hear the orchestra playing yet.”

At that, Tony laughs.

“Baby, we are the orchestra.”

* * *

 

The suit is big and bulky and during the war required plane transport. In the past decade, Howard has managed to streamline it to the degree that portable charging is possible. Steve can carry it, along with his pack, and Tony, supposedly; as long as they only fly for a few hours at a time.

The repulsor tech is amazing, Tony thinks jealously. He wishes he’d invented it.

Still. He’s not thrilled at the idea of flying. He’s not afraid of heights by any means, but clinging to a near-perfect stranger like the tiniest baby octopus is normally where he’d draw the line. Normally.

It’s not like he’s got much of a choice about this.

Tony stares out at the long, green expanse of the French countryside. “We need to hit up the Eastern Bloc. That’s days away.”

“Not by air,” Steve tells him. He lifts one amused eyebrow. “Want a lift?”

“Anything to stem the ever-present tide of communism,” Tony replies, rolling his eyes. “By the way, I asked Howard, and with our powers combined, we got you a present.”

Tony tosses something at Steve, which he catches easily. He turns it over in his big, rough hands and says, “You got me a…a bagel?”

“I would move mountains for you. Or at least import a whole hell of a lot of bagels.” Tony grins. “See? Now you’ve got people.”

In that moment, Steve looks stricken, both hopeful and hopeless. He tells Tony, “Are you sure about that? I never was much good with people.”

And Tony knows he means Bucky, and Peggy, and the world. He knows that Steve means the way people grow closer during a war, only to drift apart, and how hard it is to be a man when he is also a hero. He knows Steve doubts everything Tony’s offering, because among other things, it won’t be on offer forever.

But Tony says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pharaonic Mercury is a real (fake) thing, and it is a horrible exercise in how urban legends can actually hurt people.
> 
> And ummmm, I know for a while there I was updating at crazy speed, but I just started a new job, etc, so they definitely shall not be as quick. I apologize! Don't hate me. -hides-

_1947_

Steve lies in bed and listens to the hum of the reactor overtake his own breath sounds.

He’s in Europe for the first time since the war ended, but this isn’t theater any longer.

It’s entire nations, trying to recuperate from the scars gouged deep into their souls. Steve meets people in the streets who have no idea that he bled here, that he nearly died here. And he knows they have stories much the same.

Everyone lost somebody or something during the war. Now they all look towards the future, eyes flooded with hope.

Steve wants to greet them with the same optimism, but. He can’t. Nothing is over for him.

There are days when he has to wrap himself in metal; a red, white, and blue embrace. He’s Captain America, in a world that doesn’t need Captain America.

The suit is beginning to feel like a cage.       

* * *

 

_1953_

They set down for the night along the German border, stirring up a campfire under a waterlogged canopy in the darkest, creepiest forest that Tony’s ever been in.

Which isn’t actually saying much; Tony spends about as much time in nature as he does in soup kitchens.

That is to say, none at all.

He is still liable for tending the flames while Steve carefully removes each piece of the armor, hooking it up to the portable charger. The arc reactor in his chest generates constant, renewable energy on the smallest scale, and in the golden days of the suit, that’s what kept everything operational.

It was a drain on Steve though, when it powered the armor on top of his own heart. Tony thinks Howard did a smart thing, changing up the design.

The thought niggles at him, stays present, even when he tries to chase it away. Tony pokes the fire with a stick, hating that his father can still garner such grudging admiration from him, so long after his death.

To distract himself, Tony calls across the clearing, “What is it we’re supposed to be looking for, anyway? Agent Carter mentioned this planned attack, but she didn’t seem to trust me with the details.”

“Peg’s an excellent judge of character.” Steve grins; the insult has zero bite. His bare chest emits a pale glow, like a star laid bare, there amongst the trees. “There are some whispers on the Bloc. Something big is supposed to go to market.”

“Weapons grade uranium?” Tony guesses. “Plutonium-239?”

“Worse.” Steve waggles his eyebrows comically. “Pharaonic Mercury.”

Tony’s scoff is loud and immediate. “That stuff’s an urban legend.”

The wind rustles the canopy overhead, leaves shifting, rearranging the order of their tiny universe. Steve says, “I know.”

“Then why are we hunting this down?”

“Because the Soviets are looking to buy.” Steve detaches the charges from the arc reactor, self-consciously turning his body so that the light is tucked away, hidden until he can pull on a shirt.

Tony wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to hide, like that. That he understands a lot about scars. He’s just not sure if Steve will appreciate the empathy.

Steve says, “This plan of attack that’s in motion; we think they intend to use the mercury.”

“And when they figure out it’s a sham-“

“Then they’ll have to switch over to conventional means.” Steve makes his way over to the fire, placing his hands palm-down over it, to warm up.

Tony hadn’t even realized it was cold. “So we follow the buyers back to home base?”

“Exactly.”

“Pharaonic Mercury,” he muses. “Even in my day, that myth still sticks. People overseas think it fuels landmines. They get themselves killed trying to free it up.”

“To use?”

“To sell,” Tony says. “The USSR isn’t the only big contender, anymore.”

“Interesting.” Steve folds his hands together, his gaze pensive. “The fighting never stops, does it?’

“Bad people don’t give up on being bad,” Tony replies. Then leans in to catch Steve’s eye and when he does, he winks. “But good people don’t stop being good, either. Buck up, soldier.”

Even if it’s only marginal, Steve does. He rummages around until he finds a checkered napkin in his pack, from which he carefully unbundles cheese, bread, and a few apples.

Tony refrains from telling him that he’s not a Disney princess or that meat does a body good. It’s all for the war effort, right?

Even if the Cold War effort only consists of him, Steve, a select few government officials.

“I can actually hear your disdain,” Steve tells him through a bite of apple. His lips are pink, soft, and wet from the juice of it. Tony doesn’t even mean to look, but there you go.

“What disdain? I am disdain-less. I’ve never even heard of the word.” Tony picks up a piece of cheese, just to prove his point. Steve isn’t quite a stranger anymore. He’s not a friend, not yet. But he’s also not a stranger. And that means that Tony almost wants to impress him. “Your arms are massive.”

Steve snorts, dodging out of poking distance. See? They’re getting to know each other so well!

“So are yours.”

“Yeah, but, no. It’s not the same thing. My arms are genetically engineered to be massive. Yours are home grown, soldier.”

“Stop staring at my arms, Tony.”

“How can I when you wrap me in your loving embrace all day?”

“That’s the armor.”

“Same thing.” Tony pops some cheese in his mouth and it’s – oh, gooey, he can’t figure out if that’s gross or not – continuing, “I’m a techno-fetishist, you know.”

“That word has a definition of some sort, I’m certain.”

“Yeah, that definition being awesome, which is synonymous with me.”

“Sometimes, when you talk, I think it’s just because you like hearing yourself speak.”

“You would be very, very correct, my man.” He glances up at the hoot of an owl. “So on a scale of one to absolutely, how likely is it that we’ll get eaten by bears?”

“You could wrestle a bear, no problem.”

“You think?” Tony asks, heartened. “Have you ever done that, in the suit?”

“And ding the paintjob?” Steve does a great job looking mock-horrified. “Howard would have conniptions.”

Tony makes a face. “He’s always throwing tantrums.”

That’s maybe not the most just assessment. Howard has been nothing but cordial since Tony fell into the SSR’s lap.

Steve calls him out on it. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

He turns his bright blue eyes on Tony, and that’s not fair at all. Those babies were made for interrogations; Tony can already feel his will disintegrating.

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Tony hedges. “We have…differences of opinion. He just doesn’t know about them yet.”

“So you know him. In the future.”

“I know a lot of people in the future, you tricky devil of a man. Don’t think you’ll get more out of me than that.”

“Can you blame me for trying?” Steve asks, a bit wistful. “It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about the future.”

“Yeah?”

“I loved science fiction when I was a kid. But once I enlisted, it was hard to think about anything other than the here and now.”

“The war ended years ago,” Tony observes, digging his heels into dirt and wondering how uncomfortable sleeping on the ground is going to be.

Very, he imagines. Ugh.

Steve’s blue eyes narrow. “Not for me.”

“No. Not for you,” Tony agrees.

“He’s growing, I think,” Steve says, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a stampede animal.

Tony goes with it, because why not. “Who is?”

“Howard. When I knew him, during the war, he was the best damn civilian pilot the states had ever seen, but. He had…vices.”

“Women. Alcohol. _Women_.”

“All of the above,” Steve agrees ruefully. “He still does. Obviously. But his work captivates him, the older he gets. He’s beginning to leave the rest of it behind.”

“He’ll never leave it all behind.”

Steve inclines his head. “I like to believe in people.”

“I’ve seen the future,” Tony objects.

The fire crackles cheerfully. Steve says, “Even so.”

“Say. How did Howard get to running the SSR, anyway? He’s not exactly the rank and file type.”

Steve lifts his shoulders a bit haplessly. “The SSR was losing funding after the war. There was talk of shutting us down, even with the Captain America project. Howard stepped in.”

“Seems like a risky move, putting a businessman in charge of a secret government organization.”

“His authority’s not limitless. Agent Carter, Agent Thompson, and Agent Sousa all have veto power on everything he does.” The ghost of a grin drifts lazily across Steve’s lips. “They like to let him think he’s higher in the hierarchy than he is.”

“In exchange for the best toys?”

“It’s like you understand them and their twisted spy hearts.” Steve grins.

Feeling acutely like he needs to bring an iota of good news from his own time to the conversation, Tony offers, “He stays friends with your Agent Carter. She, uh. I’ve met her. Before. Or I will.”

Steve smiles. “Peggy’s something.”

“She really is. Never understood why you two crazy kids couldn’t work it out.”

Steve’s cheeks color. “They know about _that_ in the future?”

“It’s the future. We know everything.” Tony grins. “Don’t let me pry, though. I’ve got a reputation for being nosy.”

“I imagine it’s part of your charm.”

“I’ve never heard it described quite that way.” Tony laughs, deep throated and open. “Usually more expletives are involved.”  

“I think you’re charming. Occasionally.” Steve ducks his head, and Tony lets his bashfulness roll over him. Even though Rhodey was right – Tony did have posters of Captain America on his wall as a kid – he never really expected he’d like Steve Rogers this much. “Say, that little guy you built-“

“The robot?”

“Where’d you learn to do a thing like that?”

Tony blinks. He doesn’t think anyone’s really asked him that before. Mostly because his life story played out on the front page of the Kremlin’s best newspapers, but still.

Trying his hardest to look casual, Tony leans back on his palms, fingertips digging into the earth. He takes a deep breath, in _out_ , and then admits, “My dad was a well-established inventor before I came along, but he didn’t…uh, teach me as much as people think. I was a bit of a whiz-kid.”

“He must have been real proud. Your dad. Both of your folks, actually.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony is losing track of casual really quickly. “He was really something. Proud might not encompass it.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve wraps his fingers around the back of his neck, skin-coloring, like he’s self-conscious about snooping in Tony’s business. It’s endearing, really. Who’d have thought Captain America, hero of legend, had so many damn endearing qualities? “Smart guy like you? Who wouldn’t be proud?”

For the briefest of moments, the image of Howard scurrying around his lab flashes behind Tony’s eyes.

He doesn’t know what happened to make this frenzied genius of a man, who is so quick to smile that it sends Tony’s head spinning, into the father he knows. Tony had assumed his dad was always hard, always cold, and always so calculating.

Now he wonders if maybe D.C. – and Steve’s death – was the catalyst for all of that.

He almost dares to hope that when he remakes the past, the new timeline’s Tony Stark can have a real childhood.

Almost.

Tony doesn’t believe in miracles.

He turns the remains of his apple in his hands, biting once more at the core. It’s his turn to change the subject.

“Back home, where I’m from, we can’t travel like this. You need border permits and background checks and local permissions.” Tony inclines his head, the fire waltzing hypnotically in front of him. He watches sparks drift off into the night and amends, “Well. Most people do. I’m cleared.”

“You must be a powerful scientist.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “About that. Did you read Agent Carter’s debrief? I’m not… _just_ …a scientist. I make weapons. Powerful weapons.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I don’t love doing it on terms that aren’t my own,” Tony confesses. “I like explosions as much as the next guy, but it’s different when you know that…that you’re going to hurt people who have never done you or your country wrong.”

Steve breathes in, sharply. “Tony, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it, though? To hear you tell it, if the Reds never got to me, then D.C. wouldn’t have been lost, and your future, well. It probably would have been a helluva lot different.”

“I don’t deal in ifs, Rogers.” Tony reaches across the fire, squeezing Steve’s forearm. “There was no way for you to stop your own death.” He shrugs, retracting his hand. “Now there is.”

“My hero,” Steve says, and it doesn’t even sound like a joke.

Tony opens his mouth to respond, with sarcasm or honesty; he’s not sure which.

But it’s then that the world explodes into fire.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shoulda dodged that,” Tony notes, watching Steve get pummeled. Another shell hits him in the side, and Tony adds, “You definitely should have dodged that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it is the land of typos up in this fic. I apologize for that. I changed a few of them, but until I get a beta, I'm never going to catch them all. I hope you all forgive me and keep reading anyway?

_1948_

The Soviets are looking west, seeing the United States as a threat.

It’s fair. They’re the biggest and the baddest. The victors of the war to end all wars, and the war after that, and no one is a bigger fan of America than America itself.

“Look at you,” Dottie says, from her prison cell. “You’re so proud of what you’ve accomplished. The proudest, but you’re also so tired. Wouldn’t you like to rest?”

“I am resting, ma’am,” Steve tells her. “I’m on leave.”

“I’m flattered you want to spend your vacation with me.” Dottie flashes him a smile, all teeth, and she is never _off_ , Steve’s noticed. She’s perfected her act, the consummate spy. It might be why he visits, when he can. To listen, and learn. To see how she does it.

Plus, he thinks that he’d hate spending all that time behind concrete, with no one to talk to but the walls.

Dottie says, “You should send Peggy around, sometime. I like her.”

“She’s very likeable,” Steve agrees. It doesn’t hurt much, what happened between them. Not anymore. He watches Peggy at work, and sees how she glows with it, her absolute joy in what she does. He watches her and Agent Sousa watches her, and hell, sometimes even Howard Stark watches her, but Steve lost his chance ages ago, and the rest of them won’t make a move.

Everyone is scared of snuffing out Peggy Carter’s glow; it’d be a loss the world could never handle.

“Ah,” Dottie sighs dramatically. “Heartbreak. You really loved her, didn’t you?”

Steve crosses his arms, even though he knows better. She’ll know he’s on the defensive now. A damn civilian would know it.

He allows, “She’s also very loveable.”

“Are you scared, then?”

“Of?”

“That you’ll never find it again. What you and Peg had? If I were you, I’d be scared. I’d be terrified that I was going to spend the rest of my miserable life alone-“

“But you are,” Steve snaps. He gestures around her jail cell, emphatic. “You’re stuck here.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Am I, though?”

She’s baiting him. Steve knows that she is. He breathes deep, an inhale _exhale_ that doesn’t do much to calm him, because she’s right. She’s right, and she knows she’s right, at least about him. Steve _can’t_ shake this idea that he doesn’t belong, and the more years slip by the greater it grows. He meets women, and men, and none of them are…right. None of them are what he wants.

Even Peggy has changed. If she turned around in the middle of the office one day and told him that she’d reevaluated everything…Steve wouldn’t know what to do.

He’s not the same man who loved her during the war. He’s not even someone he much recognizes anymore.

Subterfuge and espionage, and shadows. Everything is shadows.

Maybe that’s why he really visits Dottie. She is a spider, weaving a web in the darkness, and even when she’s cruel, she is still familiar and benign. She’s cut from the same cloth as Steve, like recognizing like, and he needs that.

He holds up the newspaper he’s had tucked under his arm and says, “I thought you’d like it if I read you the news.”

“Oh,” Dottie gasps, delighted, but of course even that is a mask. “What a gentleman.”

Steve squares his shoulders and begins narrating the front page.

* * *

 

_1953_

“Left. Left. No, your other left,” Tony shouts at Steve, who is trying to stumble his way through the thick, choking smoke of the explosion.

He needs to get to the suit, Tony knows, because as certain as he is that Steve Rogers is the kind of man who would spring into action unarmed, he’s also certain that the gorgeous idiot isn’t bulletproof.

Steve coughs, a great hacking thing that sounds as though it deposits one of his lungs summarily on the ground of their camp. Tony feels something tighten in his chest and goes back to searching for what the hell hit them, because this, this is not okay. He needs to do something, to not feel so helpless.

What’s the point of being a motherfucking super soldier if he can get snuck up on like this?

He scans the sky, his sharpened eyesight piercing the billowing clouds of ash, and _there_. The attack came from a man – KGB, he has to be – who is basically hovering in the sky.

That definitely wasn’t in the history books.

“St- er, Cap?” Tony calls, nearly slipping on the code names. He’s probably not cut out for this secret agent stuff, but too late now. “Can the Soviets, uh, fly?”

“Augmented versions of the armor’s flight capability plugged into an exoskeleton.” Steve coughs again, heartily, but there’s a hum that lets Tony know he’s disconnecting the suit from its charging station. “Flying death traps, basically; not enough control, but a hell of a lot of fire power.”

“So they can fly,” Tony confirms. “Good to know.”

He hears Steve mutter, “It’s more like a controlled hover,” before he’s distracted by assembling their best line of defense. Which is something they need, and now. A second projectile hits the ground near Tony’s feet; he dodges moments before it detonates, throwing himself into a measured somersault and landing on his feet in a way that would make his sixth grade gym teacher proud.

He finds his footing as a second agent emerges from the east, this one on foot.

Tony moves in front of Steve, which doesn’t even make sense, because he can hear the whine of the armor activating. Steve is ninety nine point nine percent more invulnerable now that he’s in the metal suit than Tony will ever be, even with super powers.

But all the same, the move is instinctive, and he doesn’t regret it, tilting his chin up to face both of their attackers.

“Iron Man,” Steve protests, his voice strange through the suit’s modulators. But hey, he used Tony’s code name, so that’s definitely a win. “What are you- get out of the way!”

Stubbornly, Tony stands his ground. “I like it here. The view’s great.”

The agent on feet raises his gun, and Steve shoves Tony out of the way before he can even formulate a plan, which is irritating both because Tony likes to think he’s a fast-planner and because he ends up with a mouth full of dirt.

“Fine,” Tony splutters. “Numero dos is yours.”

He turns his sights on Controlled Hover, who is doing that thing where he begins throwing off even more projectiles, which he evades but Steve does not. He’s marching towards the second agent while the miniaturized explosives hit him from either side.

“Shoulda dodged that,” Tony notes, watching Steve get pummeled. Another shell hits him in the side, and Tony adds, “You definitely should have dodged that.”

“Not. Helping,” Steve grits out. Which, okay, fair.

Tony takes a running leap from the ground, wondering if it’s even possible to get the kind of height he’s looking for and- yeah. It is. He’s a goddamn miracle man.

Tony loops his arms around the neck of Mr. Flying KGB, tightening his grip to keep from slipping. The guy curses in Russian, and oh hey, Tony knows that one, that is, “-very impolite, is what that is” he says sternly, and then he tightens his grip.

A blast sounds off from the ground, Captain America making mincemeat of the second man, and Tony contents himself with watching the way that his own agent’s skin flushes pink, and then red. The hover turns into a crazed spiral of descent as his oxygen supply diminishes.

Before they hit dirt, Tony leaps to safety, which is – huh – okay, actually very safe.

Searching the air for incoming bogeys, Tony sees that the second agent is staring vacantly at the sky. Concussed, probably.

Tony’s medical knowhow doesn’t stretch much beyond concussions. He heaves a sigh, lungs tight in his chest as his eyes rake over Steve. “That…seemed like a lot of work for an urban legend.”

Steve pushes back his faceplate. His hair sticks up at odd angles, his face sweaty and touched with oil-like grime. Flatly, he tells Tony, “You need a weapon.”

“I am a weapon,” Tony retorts.

“Not enough of one.”

“Ouch, Cap. That stings, it really does. I have inadequacy issues,” he lowers his voice confidentially, “It’s all my dad’s fault-“

“Stop kidding around! You could have died out there, and that would have been on me.”

“No. It would have been on me.” Tony is firm in this. “I’m a grown ass man, and it’s my fault when and how I want to go into the line of fire.”

Sullenly, Steve says, “That may be so, but you still need a weapon.”

Tony stalks over to his felled KGB agents. He lifts one of the guy’s arms, wiggling it around just to make sure that he’s out.

Nary a response.

Satisfied, Tony begins inching off one of the agent’s skeletal gauntlets.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, worriedly. The man does _worried_ better than Tony’s own mother had, and Jarvis, which is saying something.

“That controlled hover is propelled by a crude version of Howard’s repulsor tech. I can modify it so that it responds like your suit.”

“No one but Howard knows how to work my suit,” Steve objects, blue eyes wide.

“I think I’ll get the hang of it,” Tony deadpans. Steve doesn’t appreciate the humor in that, because Steve is a giant grumpy gus. Tony tells him, “The kremlin keeps the schematics for the Captain America armor locked up, but. My company has the patent.”

“Why’s that?”

“Trade secret.”

Steve sighs. “If you say so.” He frowns at the gauntlet in Tony’s hands. “I’d feel better if you had something that-“

“Went boom. Yeah, I got that.” Tony fiddles with the frame of the tech, thinking it’ll be way more secure with reinforcements. Some kind of plating, maybe. “You know I came back from the future to save _you_ , right?”

“I’d rather we save each other,” Steve replies seriously. “That’s how partners work.”

Tony’s expression sours. He tucks the gauntlet into what remains of their things and mutters, “Rah, rah, teamwork.”

“You’re not a fan?”

“I’ve never been on a team,” Tony corrects. He thinks of Rhodey, of Pepper, and Carol, and Maria Hill. The rebellion stalks in and out of Stark Industries, using his property as their own personal hub, but Tony is just a contractor. No one has ever asked him to be anything more. “Not really.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Steve replies, and that startles a laugh out of Tony more than anything else.

He says, “We probably shouldn’t stay here. Agent Thompson gave me explicit instructions before we left, you know.”

“What’d he say?”

“Not to pussyfoot around and to get our asses on site as expediently as humanly possible.”

Steve frowns at Tony. “Exact words?”

“I’d paraphrase that so much more eloquently.”

“I have my doubts about that.”

“Words wound, Steve,” Tony reminds him. Then he says, “There might have been an expletive or two that I left out.”

Steve checks a grin. He nudges the concussed KGB agent with one big, shiny armored foot. “What should we do about them?”

“Strip the metal for parts,” Tony says seriously. “And then leave ‘em here.”

Steve considers, looking very much like he’s wondering if it would be better to fly both of the idiots back to the SSR’s camp back at Howard’s frickin’ villa.

Then he kneels down next to the closest agent and starts dismantling his exoskeleton. Conversationally, he says, “We could make it to the sale by tomorrow.”

Tony snorts, already at work on his own agent.

“What?”

“It’s just. We’re traipsing across the countryside, fighting crime. Because I’m apparently now a comic book character,” he explains, tugging hinged metal from his KGB agent’s foot. “You have your own comics, did you know that?”

Cheeks pinking, Steve murmurs, “Seems like I’ve got everything.”

“Perk of being a superhero. I wonder if I’ll end up in the history books too, now. Captain America’s trusty sidekick, the Iron Man- what?” Tony stops, startled by the way that Steve is watching him. “What did I say?”

“Uh. Ah.” Steve scratches behind his neck, where the armor meets his sweaty skin. He says, “I’ve never been called- that.”

“Bullshit. Howard throws the hero word around all the time.”

“Howard has a mirrored ceiling on his Rolls.”

“Classy,” Tony comments, and there is absolutely no way he’s examining that further.

“I. They called me a hero, after the war. But it stopped. When I started this.”

“This being, what, spycraft?” Tony rolls his eyes and grabs Steve’s arm. The suit is sun warm under his palm. “Listen. You’re – you. I can tell you’re not the biggest fan of this job. But what you’re doing is important. You hide in the shadows so that democracy can thrive. It might not feel like there’s a lot of honor in that, but in the future? Everyone recognizes what you sacrificed. Everyone, and I mean everyone, calls Captain America a superhero. You were the first, and the greatest.”

Steve’s throat works, the rhythm of a swallow. Tony can see the way he’s mulling it over, trying to suss out something wrong with what Tony’s said. He can see the doubt, already welling up – Tony called Captain America a hero, but what about Steve Rogers?

He adds, casually, “Everyone knows.”

“What?”

“Everyone knows that you’re Captain America, where I come from. The Soviets disclose the information after you…” Tony draws a finger across his neck and makes a lurid noise that sounds nothing at all like a death rattle. “They meant to shame you, I think. Here is the man who couldn’t save your country. That backfired.”

Steve stares at him.

Tony continues, “When I say that you’re a superhero, I’m not talking to the armor, Steve.”

Steve brightens, then. Happiness turns his countenance into something different, his eyes bluer, the tilt of his chin prouder, and his shoulders straighter, even inside the suit. Tony knows that Steve would have gone to his death unappreciated and miserable – it’s the kind of patriot he is.

But he also knows there’s no harm in someone telling him thanks. Thanks for serving. Thanks for saving lives. Thanks for being brave, when others didn’t know how to be.

Tony grins at Steve, glad he could do something to chase the storm clouds off of his face. He’s not sure if its part and parcel of teamwork, or if he should be charging commission, but he feels pretty accomplished either way.

When the finish disassembling the rudimentary hover suits, Tony shoves what he can into their packs. Satisfied that his packing job isn’t a complete shitshow, he says, “So this is it, huh? East Germany here we come.”

Steve flips down the faceplate on the suit, every inch the soldier. Through the armor’s modulators, his voice crackles out, “Onwards and outwards.”

“Onwards,” Tony agrees. Then he asks, “But do you think we could stop for bagels on the way?”


End file.
